


Do you want to die together?

by i_pogchamp



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Additional characters added later - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Immortality, M/M, Magic, Platonic Cuddling, Romance plot secondary, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 83,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28219854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_pogchamp/pseuds/i_pogchamp
Summary: Being immortal as he is, Dream has seen many people drift past him in the millenia he's lived. He was born with the universe and will die with it.Except he never expected he'd find something else he'd want to die with instead.All the time in the world isn't worth losing this.[Vaguely based off of the SMP but i hijacked everything and it's more high fantasy dnd-esque now.]Title from Stars' song of the same name! Listen to Stars yall.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs, Alexis | Quackity/Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Alexis | Quackity/Sapnap, Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound, Karl Jacobs/Sapnap, Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 106
Kudos: 234





	1. Prologue - The First Time

**Author's Note:**

> thanks sapnap for that one clip i saw idek when asking dream if hed be open to cuddling because thats like 25% of this idea.
> 
> anyway hello! general usual "don't ship real actual people unless theyre cool with it" statement, remember it's opt-in not opt-out, no statement at all means you should assume theyre not ok with it etc etc anyway!!!  
> (i am actually generally very passionate about these things this is just a heavy fandom for it and im tired of making my point. you all have brains you can use em.)
> 
> have the "dream is immortal, george and the others are not" au everyone loves to hurt from. I also have no idea whats going to happen until it does. this story is NOT planned out in the slightest, im a pantser for writing.
> 
> enjoy!
> 
> (ALSO NOTE: The "prologue" section is past tense, but the rest of the story will be present tense since thas how i write most comfortably!)

The first time he said it, he was laughing as he withdrew the long, silvered rapier from his rack despite the fact that George knew he preferred the heavy weight of an axe.

“They can’t kill me,” He’d said, voice buoyant with chuckles, “Don’t worry so much.”

“But what if they do?” George had wrested the rapier from Dream’s hand and succeeded in opening a thin wound across his palm. Dream dropped the weapon immediately and took George’s injured hand in both of his own, cupping around the blood and broken flesh.

“They can’t.” He’d said, and brushed his thumb across the line, smearing the crimson. The pain smarted itself away, and when George looked below the sheen of blood, the wound had closed over. Dream had smiled again, then, though just the edge was visible below the mask,  
“I promise. I’ll be fine.”

And George had paused.

“Try not to kill them.” He’d said, and Dream had laughed. That wonderful, terrifying, hilarious laugh, the one that broke into a wheeze and a screech, like everything was the funniest shit in the world.

“No promises!” Dream had replied on his way out of the door, George’s blood still on his fingertips. And he’d paused, looking over his shoulder, “But for you? I’ll try.”


	2. The Beginning - A Skeleton of Something More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Sleeping At Last's song of the same name ("A Skeleton Of Something More)
> 
> Sapnap returns from a hunt through a thunderstorm.

Rain drums down the roof and Dream sits atop the closest stone top under which a fire burns- or burnt, as it’s down to embers at this point. Across from him, cloaked in about a thousand blankets, George sits, watching him as always.

“You’re not gonna sleep ‘til he’s back, are you?” Dream asks between torn-off bites of bread. George hums.  
  


  
“Would you?”  
  
  


“I don’t sleep.” Dream replies, nestling back on the warm stovetop. George snorts at him.  
  


  
“I know you don’t. But if you did?”

Dream pauses, using another aggressive rip of the bread with his canines as his excuse for his silence until,   
“No,” He admits, “Probably not. Honestly, if it weren’t for you, I’d be out there looking for him.”

“Like an idiot,” George says, and as the words are still coming out of his mouth,

“Like an idiot.” Dream agrees. He sighs, presses a hand to the warm stone and reluctantly bids it a silent farewell before he eases off and pads over toward George, flumping beside him on the almost-couch. He opens his mouth to demand George shares, but he doesn’t even get to the click of his jaw before George is leaning over to wrap blankets around his shoulders. Dream smiles at him from below the mask.   
They’ve lived together for so long that it goes unspoken how cold Dream gets without constant input. George swears he’s cold blooded, every time their skin makes contact, he’ll jump back about six feet before loudly swearing about the ice chill.

They sit beside one another, staring out of the window. The glass in the pane is somewhat discolored and warped, but they’re still proud of it, considering how much of an effort it was to make it. And they can see outside, so what’s the big deal?  
  


The darkness has long crept in, and thunder rumbled on the distant horizon. Every time lightning flashes, George jumps. Dream would, but he’s had long enough to crush the reaction down.  
Still, the third time it happens, he lets out a heavy sigh at the same time that George flinches, and he reaches out below the blankets, searching until he can set his hand over George’s arm and rub a soothing circle with his thumb against George’s skin.  
  


“He’ll be home soon.”  
  


“Yeah,” Says George, but every time he goes out, they both wonder if he’ll ever make it back.

The sun is six hours below the horizon when Sapnap comes dragging himself in, soaked to the bone and shivering violently, dragging a barely-conscious Bad under his arm,

“Here was closer than Skeppy,” Sapnap says between chattering teeth, and Dream is already up and stoking at the fire with murmurs of words and sparks from his cinderpatch. The fire takes with a little oil to help it along, and Sapnap unceremoniously plops himself and Bad down right in front of it.  
  


“What happened?” George is at their side with a towel and dry clothes for Sapnap. Bad will have to be Dream’s responsibility, “Raiders? Hunting party?”

  
  
Sapnap gives a bitter bark of laughter,

  
  
“I _wish,_ honestly. No, we met up with Wilbur’s group on the outskirts of the forest and stuck together a bit-”

  
“Did that asshole turn on you?” Dream asks, venom and bitterness on his tongue, fists clenched. George shoots him a warning look and begins violently toweling Sapnap’s hair.

  
“No, we’re still on good terms. We took down a boar- flank’s in a tarp outside, sorry, didn’t want to track blood in- and they called it for the night once we split it. We kept going, though, and ended up tracking into a necrotic hornet’s den.”

George hisses through his teeth. Dream’s noise of sympathetic pain is heard through the wall. He returns a few moments later with a set of his own looser clothing.

“Any poison?”

  
“Don’t think so,” Sapnap is released from his aggressive toweling and shifts to Bad, who has been laid out on the floor now. Numb, rain-chilled fingers smooth and pick across Bad’s clothes, dipping into gashes and slashes in his cloak and shirt. Sapnap grimaces, and pulls his hand back with his fingertips covered in a sticky layer of red-black blood.  
“Take that back.”

George exhales,  
  
“At least it was Bad,” he says, though he’s still going for the emergency kit they keep under a floorboard by the door, kept dry by a heavy layer of wax and packed dirt.  
He withdraws it and returns to the fireside, where the flames are beginning to lick up and properly light the room. Dream goes about setting the lanterns alight, to give George more light to work by.   
The group is adept at dealing with the hazards of the forest at this point, and they work in decent tandem. Sapnap helps lift Bad so that Dream can throw the blood towels in a layer underneath him, and they work together to peel his soaked clothing layers from at least his upper half. Ideally, he’ll be awake and able to change himself once George is finished, but they’re prepared for the alternative if necessary.

By the firelight, George withdraws the vials of cure and the various supplies they’ve hijacked from Dream’s alchemy set over the years here. He taps out the powders he needs in precise amounts, checks the pouch of mycena powder that they’re running low on to pull the pinch from it that they need, tips the tiny sachet of ground lightning charcoal up until he has just the right amount of the stuff.

  
“Water.” He half-demands, and Dream heads to the door with the rain dish to hold it out and catch a pool of the droplets that he hastily returns to George. He doesn’t receive a thanks, but he doesn’t expect one. He puts his hand gently on George’s head, enough to give reassurance, though not enough to distract. George drip-drops three, four, five, six raindrops into the vial and swirls it around until the slush has unified. Then he glances over at Bad, and Dream takes the silent instruction, kneeling down and grimacing as he presses his fingers to the worst of Bad’s four or five wounds. When he offers the hand out to George, his fingertips and capped claws are coated in the too-viscous blood, trailed in red and black. George scoops a drop, a single drop, lets it drip into the vial with the consistency of syrup and swirls. Dream sticks his fingers in his mouth despite the acrid taste of the poison and cleans the blood from his skin, tongue lashing to remove the traces of it from under his nails.

  
Being partially demonic in nature, Bad is far more resistant to poison than the full-blood humans of the hunting parties. It gives them far more time to administer the cure before it becomes dangerous, and the cold making his blood flow sluggish will have helped with that too. 

  
“Done,” George says, pulling a gauze pad from the med kit and pouring a trail of the slushy cure out onto it, smoothing it out into a thin film with his cleaner hand before setting it over the worst of the poisoned wounds. He hands off the remainder to Sapnap to cover the other wounds, then heads for the door so he can lean out and wash his hands in the rainfall. Dream follows him.

  
“What’re we running low on?”  
  


“Mycena powder, lightning charcoal, grave dirt, fiddlehead fern…” George lists off, shaking his head, “And albino keratin.”

  
“Good time for lightning charcoal,” Dream gestures out at the thunderstorm, “I can go out and get almost all of that now, if you want.”

  
“No,” George says sharply, shaking his hands off so he can pull them in and grasp Dream’s hoodie tightly, “Stay.”

  
“I’ll be fine, you know I will.” Dream rolls his eyes, and George shakes his head, tugging at the fabric of the hoodie,

  
“I know, but still. Stay.”

The rest goes unspoken. _Stay for me._ Stay because George hates the thunder, stay because Sapnap is exhausted, stay because Bad is hurt. Stay because he doesn’t want to feel alone.

“Bad can take my bed,” George tells Sapnap, splitting from Dream to move back to the others, Bad’s brief fever is lifting and his breathing is deeper now. He’s still completely out, though, so they figure they’ll have to dress and move him.

  
“What about you?” Sapnap glances up, though it’s not so much an argument as it is general concern. George shrugs. 

  
“I’ll stay on the sofa tonight.”

  
“I’ll stay with him.” Dream tacks on, and George shoots him a grateful smile. It’s normal for them, but there’s still the gratitude every time. Especially during a thunderstorm.

  
“Right. Help me get him in something dry, then?” Sapnap begins shifting, and between them, they wind strips of bandage around the gauze to hold the cure in place, then pull one of Dream’s biggest, loosest hoodies over his head, somehow manage to put him in a pair of cotton pants, and then they deposit him in George’s room, tucking him in. Sapnap barely has the energy to give them a tired goodnight before he’s basically passed out in his own bed.

  
George and Dream return to the main room, where George begins fluffing out the blankets to set up for an uncomfortable night of no sleep. It was already going to suck, with the sound of the thunder through the air, but he’s fairly sure he won’t sleep at all now. It’s worth it, though. He can sleep tomorrow, when Bad is awake and alive.   
Whilst he’s distracted, Dream burrows into the blankets on the sofa, stretching out luxuriously and grinning at him under the mask.

“ _Dream,_ ” George half-whines, exasperated, but not genuinely annoyed.

  
“My city now.”

  
“You’re the worst.” George sighs, shaking a blanket to spread out over Dream like a sheet, receives a wheeze of a laugh in reply. 

He continues through the motions of laying the blankets out as though Dream isn’t there, and after about a minute of silent sheet shaking, Dream speaks up with a voice laced in concern.

  
“I can move if you want me to. I just- I thought you’d, uh,”

  
“I’m going to,” George assures, “Don’t panic.”

Dream visibly relaxes, easing an arm out from under the blankets to open up to George, who huffs before crawling up and laying out on Dream’s chest, the same way they always tend to when either he or Sapnap has to give up their bed for a night. Dream might not have to sleep, but he’s both a wonderfully comfortable, and very still person to lie on. Sapnap is more vocal than George about how much he enjoys it, but they all know they both appreciate the gesture.

Dream pulls the blankets up, tucking them around George as he snuggles in to his soft new bed, petting his friend’s head gently.

“You think you’ll sleep?”

  
“Probably not.” George admits, voice muffled by Dream’s thick hoodie, “But I’ll try.”  
  


“Want me to cuddle you? Or just be the bed?”

  
“Mmph.” Is the only response, which Dream understands to mean _the former, but I don’t want to explicitly tell you that._ So he wraps his arms across George’s back and shoulders under the blankets, and they settle into quiet, with Dream gently squeezing every time George shudders against the thunderclaps.   
The shudders slow

And slow

And…

Stop, as George finally falls asleep at what would be dawn on a clear day, and Dream doesn’t need to sleep, but he closes his eyes and relaxes into the warmth anyway. This isn’t common, that he gets this chance, with Sapnap or George. 

He doesn’t sleep, but he does seem to fade out, and time disappears around him whilst they lie there still, calm, and safe.

And when the sun finally breaks through the clouds, George turns his head against Dream’s chest to hide his eyes from the light and Dream breathes a warm breath of laughter, kisses the top of his head, and shifts to block the sun from his prince’s slumber.


	3. Onward - Hopeless Wanderer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mumford & Sons song of the same name ("Hopeless Wanderer")
> 
> Morning arrives, and with it comes porridge.

Bad crawls into the main room just after mid-day, where George is still laid out on Dream despite having been awake for almost a half hour.  
  


“Ngh.” Bad says eloquently in greeting, heading to light the fire. Dream points out his cinderpatch silently, and Bad picks it up, one hand on the worst of the wounds from the previous night.

Once the fire is beginning to take, and Bad has settled atop the stone above, he finally looks over to George and Dream.

“Good morning,” he says, exhausted, but smiling. Just as he always is.  
  


“Hey,” Says Dream, “You okay?”  
  


“Hurts, but I’m fine.” Bad pulls his knees up, wincing as the crunch pulls at his wounds, “Thanks for the…” He gestures at himself, a collective of the clothes and the cure. George lifts his head to smile at him,  
  


“Any time. Hungry?”  
  


“Starving,” Bad laughs, leaning against the flue, “Still exhausted, honestly.”  
  


“Not surprised, Sap said it was necrotic hornets.” George climbs off of Dream, keeping one of the blankets around his shoulders and leaving his baby of a friend whining about the loss of warmth on the sofa as he heads off to the pantry to see what he can scrounge up for Bad. They _could_ cook the flank in the shelter outside, but it would take so long and it’d be a waste of good jerky meat.

Instead, he grabs one of their split bags of pre-prepared jerky and a jar of preserved fruit, scooping up their porridge oats and returning to the main room, where Dream is already up and holding a bottle of their cleaned water with a bowl in the other hand. Bad tries to argue that he can do the work, but George and Dream both rebuke the idea and work on cooking up a batch of porridge for the lot of them whilst Bad makes fake-angry noises as he chews through the jerky.  
  


Sapnap emerges around the time the porridge is finished cooking, and he flumps onto the sofa whilst Dream ladles it up into bowls. They pass around the jar of honeyed fruit, Bad scooping out all of the blueberries, and they eat in relative quiet.  
Noise isn’t common in the would-be-mornings, of all of them, Dream is the closest to a morning person. Bad could be, if he wasn’t injured. But he is, so they’re all tired and somewhat grumpy at nothing.

  
Halfway through the porridge, Sapnap slips off the sofa to head over to Dream, sitting at his side to lay his head on his shoulder between mouthfuls. Dream sets his own bowl in the dip of his crossed legs so he can put an arm around Sapnap’s shoulders in warm affection, all the same way they’ve always been.

  
“We should send word out to Skeppy at least, let him know you’re alive.” George breaks the silence to Bad, who looks up from his porridge in alarm,

  
“Oh no! He’ll be so worried, I didn’t come home-” And they can see the panic spiral beginning, so they try to cut it off,

  
“Hey, relax, he knows our house is closer. It was thundering last night, he’ll assume you’re here- breathe, Bad.”

  
“But what if he worries? What if he goes out looking for me? What if he gets hurt?” Bad’s porridge bowl hits the stone with a clatter as he stands too fast from his spot atop the fireplace. The rest of the group share concerned looks; they can see Bad’s outline shifting and glitching around him in his worry, and having him beast out indoors would be real shit for their furniture.

  
“Alright, hey,” Dream hands his own bowl to Sapnap so he can stand and pull Bad into a loose hug, “I’ll head over there now, you can catch up whenever. He’ll be fine, Bad, he knows better than to go out alone- he’d come here for company first anyway.”

Bad takes a deep breath and tucks his face against Dream’s shoulder, clasping handfuls of the green hoodie to occupy his fingers.

  
“Thank you, Dream,” He muffles, and Dream pats his back gently,

  
“Eat up, I’ll see you soon.” And he steps back, pats Bad’s shoulder, and turns to go change so he can head out. Sapnap follows him into his room, averting his gaze for the most part whilst Dream changes, but glancing over occasionally to read the body language he’d miss otherwise.

  
“D’you want me to go with you?”

  
“It’s fine, it’s a nice day out,” Dream replies as he digs out a lime green undershirt with padding on the shoulders to help soften the chafing of the buckles of his armor.

  
“Still,” Sapnap’s tone is casual, but the thread of tension below it is ever-present, “It might not be safe.”  
  


“Sapnap, I’m fine,” There’s almost-threat, behind the words, but it’s affectionate, “I’ll be quick.”

  
“How quick?” Sapnap squints at Dream’s back, ignoring the claw-capped fingers working to ease on the weaved leather under armor.

  
“How quick do you want me to be?” Dream glances over his shoulder, the ceramic of his mask catching the dapples of sunlight coming through the shuttered window. Sapnap takes a few moments to think it over.  
  


“ _I_ want you to be safe,” He decides on the words, “ _He_ probably wants you back as soon as possible.”

  
“Shut up,” It’s broken over a laugh, the serious tension cracking open into amusement. Sapnap dodges under the projectile of a shirt thrown at his head, laughing in response,

  
“Seriously! He’s got you wrapped around his finger!”

  
“That is _not_ true,” Dream wheezes, “No more than you do, anyway!”

  
“Aww, you’re wrapped around my finger?” Sapnap teases, stepping up into a half-hug from Dream, distracting him from the cuir bouilli chestplate he’s trying to pull on. Dream laughs, the warm wheeze of genuine amusement that they love to draw out of him.

  
“You know I am,” Dream squeezes around Sapnap’s shoulders, “You know I’d do anything for you! Either of you. Any of you.” 

Sapnap considers pressing the teasing about George, but knows that it runs the risk of pressing into territory too serious and grey for the mood. And he likes this mood.   
It’s something to shelve for another day, when Bad isn’t freaking out in their main room with necrotic wounds. So instead, he replies,

“Simp.”

  
And Dream whacks him gently with the back of his hand, they dissolve into laughter and Sapnap helps belt up all of Dream’s armor and gear, buckling the gloves to the chestplate and the sheath to the sash.   
Dream heads to the weapons rack, glancing over them to decide what he’s taking today.

“How many arrows do we have right now?” he asks Sapnap, who heads to the cupboard,

  
“Enough,” He replies at the sight of the pile, “Don’t make me count ‘em.”  
  


“Mmm,” Dream picks up the maple longbow, drawing the string back to test how it takes the tension after a while unused. It creaks a little, but nothing cracks. He figures it’s functional enough, and loops it over his head. Sapnap begins pulling arrows from the pile to put in the quiver sat by the door, and Dream turns to the melee weapons, glancing over them.

He’s going for speed today, not out for a fight. He doesn’t need anything to hit hard, just something to help guard him if he gets into trouble on the path. But there has been an influx in the necrotic corruption lately, the hornets are evidence of that.

  
“Silver shortsword,” Sapnap advises, quiver in hand, as he steps up beside Dream. The group has live together for so long, now, they don’t need to speak to know what one another is thinking.  
  


“You think?”  
  


“Yeah. Rapier’s too light for the bigger things that might crop up, longsword too heavy and slow for the smaller things. And you only use the axe when you need to do damage. Shortsword.”  
  


“Not the daggers?”  
  


“You could take the daggers, but they’re better for person-on-person combat.” Sapnap shrugs, “Whatever you prefer.”  
  


“I’ll take your advice,” Dream draws the silvered shortsword from the rack and sheathes it against his sash. There was never any doubt that he’d listen to Sapnap, honestly; for all the superiority that Dream presents to everyone else, he trusts Sapnap and George’s judgement over his own almost any day of the year. There are few things he hasn’t lost touch with in the years he’s been alive.  
  
Sapnap fastens the straps of the quiver across Dream’s shoulder and chest. They all know he could do it himself, but the little gestures are what they all love and appreciate the most. The little things are a big part of what makes life worth it. Dream pulls Sapnap into another one-armed hug, taking a moment in the calm dim of the room to catch a breath of relaxation and hold it like a seed in his heart.

“Say goodbye to George before you go.” Sapnap warns as he ducks out from under Dream’s arm.

  
“Always,” Dream replies, and slips out the door, leaving Sapnap to close the drawers and put away the scattered armor pieces that Dream decided against today.

  
  
Dream heads through the main room, wiggling his gloved fingers at Bad in simultaneous greeting and farewell. George stands from his empty porridge bowl to join Dream at the door, where last night’s rain is dripping off the leaves in the sunlight and peaceful bird’s twittering ricochets between the tree trunks.

  
“You’ll be okay?” George asks, and Dream gives a little snort of laughter, but pulls his friend into a hug anyway.

  
“I always am.”  
  


George returns the hug, but quickly, sharply, knowing each second they wait, Bad gets more anxious.

  
“Come back soon.” George’s hand lingers on Dream’s arm. The gloves and undershirt are so thin, it feels like so much less of a barrier between skin whenever he wears them. The aesthetically worn holes in the gloves brush against the pads of George’s fingers as he almost fiddles with the fabric, leaning into the sensation.

  
“I’ll be _fine._ ” Dream laughs, catching a handful of George’s shirt to pull him back in.  
George makes a noise of protest, but does nestle his face into the fur collar at Dream’s shoulder. Dream holds him for as long as he’s allowed to, resting his cheek to the top of George’s head. Bad’s eyes are on them from inside the house, but despite the anxiety, he’s smiling at the softness of their moment. Dream lifts his hands into a heart shape in Bad’s direction, and receives the same in return.  
  


“See you soon.” George withdraws, returning to the house, and Dream squishes his hand against George’s arm in the last drawn-out moment of contact before the door closes.

Now.

Who is he going to listen to about speed?

He begins walking along the path they’ve laid out toward the Badlands, where Skeppy and Bad live alongside a handful of their other friends. The forest thickens around him as he walks, since he and the rest of the Dream Team set up their home in a clearing very deliberately. It’s harder to be ambushed in their home when hiding is difficult. 

He’s a half hour into the walk when he starts to feel that edge of anxious energy, like a buzz of electricity. The kind that makes him want to bounce his leg and twitch, the kind that vibrates through his body and fills him with static.  
  
It’s _that,_ not George’s want, that makes him spark up and zap through the air along the tree branches, shifting from solidity to lightning and cracking into the wood. He remembers the need for lightning charcoal and mycena powder, and he does pause occasionally between zap jumps to collect pocketfuls of the stuff. The lightning-struck trees aren’t common, but he finds a couple along his path and strips them of the easier chunks of lightning charcoal. Albino keratin is something they’ll have to hunt specifically, though. He’s out in the wrong direction for grave dirt, and hasn’t seen any fiddlehead ferns yet, but he’s got his eye out. When he gets too worked up again, he lightning jumps between the branches, perching atop them to pull a breath into solid lungs before shooting off and crashing into the next one. His gloved fingers brush over the scorch marks each time, and he feels the darkness creeping in at the edge of his senses with every exertion of his power. 

The gate to the Badlands comes into view ahead of him just as he’s beginning to become exceptionally concerned with the spidery veins of darkness, so he lightning jumps back to the earth and solidifies midair, landing in almost a crash and brushing himself off as he stands, taking a few steps down the road before he hears his name called from the gate.

His eyes find Puffy, perched on the wall of the guard tower and waving at him, so of course, he returns it.  
  


“News on Bad?” She calls, her voice carrying between the now-sparse trees,  
  


“Yeah! He’s fine, just came to let Skeppy know!” He returns, and sees the blur of her head as she nods.  
  


“You want in? I can open the gate!”  
  
  


He considers saying no, heading home, but the little lined blur of darkness in his vision makes him second guess his would-be-reckless choice.

“Probably should.” His voice can quieten now, he’s almost at the base of the gate, and Puffy nods again as she swings her legs back over the wall so she can crank the lever, raising the gates through a series of clanking, clattering chains. She exhales hard with the exertion, and Dream dips under the gate as soon as he can, giving Puffy a thumbs up from the other side. She releases the crank and eases the gate back down.

  
“Is Skeppy at home?”

  
“He’s in the stable,” Puffy leans over the tower wall, “Looking after Roberto.”

  
“Thanks, Puffy,” Dream tilts his head so she can see him smile at her from below the ceramic mask, and he lifts a hand in a friendly wave that she returns enthusiastically before he turns and heads out toward the stable with the sun on his back and the midnight in his vision.


	4. Progress - Strawberry Avalanche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IGNORE THAT I FORGOT THE SONG WHEN I ORIIGNALLY POSTED,
> 
> Title from Owl City's song of the same name! ("Strawberry Avalanche")
> 
> The gang meets up!

Sapnap replaces his longsword in his own weapons rack, George and Bad watching him as he fiddles over his varying types of sharp and blunt force objects. His armor sits on its stand, and Sapnap huffs a sigh as he picks up the little tub of oil they use to work into the leather and dips a finger to begin smoothing it over the leather straps.   
Where they loop through the fastenings of the metal chestplate, the leather straps are somewhat cracked from the stress they’re put under. It’s perhaps true that Sapnap is the least attentive to his armor of the Dream Team, the work tedious and the oil messy. He often forgets to re-up the lubricant on the straps, and the weather and the water hasn’t been polite to them lately. 

George watches him flinch at the sensation of the oil and he rubs it into the cracks of the leather, frowning, stroking over the connections with special attention.  
  


  
“Let me do it this time,” George says, standing, stepping over to take the oil from Sapnap’s hands, though the other pulls back before he can.  
  


“Dude, it's fine, I’ve got it.” He protests, fingers twitching against the leather and coated in oil.  
  


“You’ve also got bruises from yesterday that you need to rest,” George argues, standing on his tiptoes to reach for the oil that Sapnap is holding above his head and just about brushing the underside. It’s amazing what a whole two inches of additional height will make you unable to grab.  
  


“I got it, just eat,” Sapnap stretches the oil away, his oiled hand curling in so he can push the back of his wrist to George’s chest in an effort to keep him away.

The oil is plucked from his hand from behind with the telltale swoosh of wind and beating of leathery flesh that lets Sapnap know he’s being double teamed.

The ceiling in the house isn’t high enough for Bad to fly consistently without being hurt or knocking things over, but it’s enough for him to flap once and soar up to pull the pot free of Sapnap’s hand before turning and using his wings to shield himself from the inevitable attempt of retrieval.  
And much as he’d expected, Sapnap twists to reach for his oil back, but his hand meets shadowy, leathery skin as Bad’s wings wrap around himself, he darts out of immediate reach, giggling. George follows, taking the oil as it’s offered to him.

  
“That’s not fair!” Sapnap whines, “You can’t team up on me.”

  
“We just did, ya muffin,” Bad grins, though he’s leaning a little too heavily on the side of the main wound, his wings dissipating back into shadow and air at his back.

  
“Seriously, Sapnap, I’ll take care of the rest of the armor. We won’t need the heavy stuff to head out to the Badlands, so why don’t you grab us something to suit into?”

Sapnap grumbles wordlessly, but heads though to the storage cupboard to dig out some of the light armor that he and George generally decide against. Finding something still comfortable is going to be a challenge, but he’s up for it- he really doesn’t want to take chances against a new wave of necrotic corruption. Especially since he’s fairly certain Dream _definitely did not_ heed his warning about being safe with his speed.

He returns to George with studded leather bracers and a reinforced jacket for George, and a chestplate over a kikko surcoat for himself, which George raises an eyebrow at.

“That’s going to be warm. It’s a nice day.”

Sapnap glances down at his chest, where he’s working on belting the chestplate around himself,

“I’m just worried about more hornets.”

  
“During the day?” Bad asks, tail swishing behind him as he works the oil into Sapnap’s heavy armor, “In sunlight?”

  
“I know, but Dream-” Sapnap is frowning, though his hands have stilled. George pauses mid-bracer to set a hand on Sapnap’s arm.

  
“You’ll have us, and it’s in the sunlight. The chestplate will be enough. I’d say Dream isn’t stupid enough to use his power during a new wave, but we all know he is.”

  
“Oh, definitely,” Bad agrees chirpily, attention mostly on the armor now, and Sapnap nods,

  
“I _specifically_ warned him about it before he left, as well.” He says, but he’s beginning to work the chestplate off again, so he’s listening to George’s reassurance.

  
“Then maybe we’ll get lucky, and he will have listened.” George shrugs, “I’m taking the silver longsword just in case, though.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Skeppy?” Dream calls out as he pushes the stable door open, “You here?”  
  


“Dream?” Calls the reply from one of the middle stalls, and Dream heads there, leaning on the stable gate and watching as Skeppy brushes over Roberto’s coat, smoothing out the indents from the saddle. He must have been riding, which is honestly an achievement in itself for Skeppy. He doesn’t exactly get along with animals.  
Roberto doesn’t always like him, either, but he seems reasonably calm right now. When Dream leans into the stall, Roberto snorts and pushes his head forward for pets. Dream ruffles over his forelock, rubbing gently at his ears,

  
“Hey, buddy,” He coos softly, then turns to Skeppy, one hand still smoothing over Roberto’s head, “You okay?”

  
“I- yeah, just worried.” Skeppy sets the brush down and pushes a hand through his hair. There’s faint circles under his eyes. Dream assumes he didn’t sleep last night, “Is Bad okay?”  
He knows why Dream is here. It isn’t uncommon. “He stayed with you last night, right?”  
  


“He’s fine,” Dream assures, “He got a little knocked around, but we got some cure on him and he just needs to take it easy ‘til his wounds heal.”  
  


“Easier said than done,” Skeppy smiles, straightening up and patting Robero’s flank as he stands, gesturing to Dream to move so he can leave the stall. Dream follows him around as he fills Roberto’s feed bucket and stuffs some hay into the cage for him, then hauls a bucket of water to his trough. Roberto nickers at the duo each time they return to the stall, and stuffs his face into the feed bucket almost immediately.

They emerge into the sunlight from the stable before they talk again,

“Just you?” Skeppy looks around, as though for Bad or the others, and Dream nods,

  
“For now, they’ll catch up. We wanted Bad to eat something first, but he was freaking out, so…” He splays his hands, “Here I am.”

Skeppy’s hand returns to his hair, a gesture Dream has noticed he tends toward when he’s nervous or stressed. It doesn’t always work out so great, as it doesn’t this time, as he winces somewhere close to the top of his skull and pulls his hand away as if burned.

  
“New one growing?” Dream asks, already shifting to his knees to inspect, and Skeppy hums in assent,

  
“It’s been a couple weeks since I took the last ones out. This is always the most awkward stage,” as Dream parts the hair around the spot Skeppy indicates and finds the little geometric lump where the skin is beginning to split but not quite ready yet, stretched across the tip of the growing crystal.

  
“Want me to cut it?” Dream’s free hand is already flexing toward his daggers, this is not the first time they’ve sat like this,

  
“Please,” Skeppy replies, and Dream gently eases the tip of the dagger into the taut skin between the hair follicles, cutting a semi-circle and releasing the pressure against the diamond-like growth. He sits back down as Skeppy dabs at the blood with one of his cleaner handkerchiefs. It’s likely that the crystal won’t be loose enough to remove for a few weeks, but the release of pressure will make it less painful to touch, at least.

They sit quietly in the grass, which really is the biggest giveaway that Skeppy is worried. He’s not the type to be quiet, and there’s few people he’s comfortable being quiet around. Dream often feels lucky that he’s one of those few.

Puffy appears to join them about a half hour in to laying back and staring at the clouds, pointing out whichever ones look like dicks or sheep or whatever weird thing Skeppy sees that Dream just agrees to so he doesn’t have to spend hours listening to an explanation he’ll never understand. She flops into the grass beside Dream, pointing up at one cloud in particular.

  
“Looks like a duck,” she says, and turns her head to Dream can see her grin. He wheezes out a laugh, tucking his free hand behind his head,

  
“Oh, you’ve just come over to tease me?”

  
“Not _just_ to tease you,” she replies, drawing out the _just_ with an air of smugness, “But that might be part of it. Hey, Skeppy! How’s Roberto?”

  
“Horse-y,” Skeppy replies absently, tracing a shape in the clouds with his finger, “That one kinda looks like Bad. Look, it’s got horns.”

  
“I can see it,” Puffy agrees, “It’s just missing the halo.”

  
“If you’re going for the temporary things, it doesn’t have wings or claws, either,” Dream argues, and Skeppy laughs,

  
“It doesn’t even have arms!”

The sound of the gate clanking open draws their attention, and the three of them scramble up to their feet so they can head over and catch sight of whoever’s coming in.

Despite their excitement, it turns out to just be Sam and Ant hauling a deer by a set of makeshift reins, with Sam in the lead, and Ant trying his best to keep the deer calm. As far as they can tell from the brief time their friends are visible, it seems the deer is injured in some way, and the duo manage to push it up toward the stable where they keep some basic medical supplies.

So they return to cloud watching, and when Skeppy passes out between them, Puffy and Dream fall to comfortable silence, still pointing occasionally at clouds in interesting shapes and sharing confused glances when one of them doesn’t see it, but mostly just letting their friend catch up on missed sleep.

  
  
  
  


Out of the cabin, Sapnap touches a tree branch with an almost-scowl,  
  


“I knew he wouldn’t listen,” He says as he pulls his hand back with charcoal dust and soot on his fingertips. George chuckles, shaking his head,

  
“Did you expect him to?”

  
“No, but it would’ve been nice.” Sapnap rolls his eyes, the path through the forest ahead is dappled with sunlight and it’s impossible to be genuinely mad, even if he does worry about the consequences of Dream’s lightning jumps.

  
“Looks like he managed it for some parts, though,” George points at the faint footsteps in the drying mud, “Better than just bolting the entire journey.”

  
“ _Still_ annoying.” Sapnap replies, and it’s Bad’s turn to roll his eyes. He shifts, and the wings materialise at his back.

  
“Don’t fly,” George warns, but Bad has already rocketed off of the ground, crashing through the canopy to flap above the trees, casting his eyes out toward the Badlands. He can just about see it in the distance, where his and Skeppy’s mansion radiates the sun off of the white marble, and out to the side he can see the top of Punz’s tower peeking above the trees. Whilst not technically within the Badlands, Punz’s tower tends toward being a good landmark, being just barely east of the walls.

Bad winces as the strain of the flight sends pain shooting through his torso where the wounds are being pulled, and he drops back down to the ground, clutching at his side. George is at his side momentarily, Sapnap barely behind, they kneel beside him as he doubles over and the wings dissipate once more.

  
“I told you,” George says, but he’s lifting a hand to rub Bad’s back anyway, “Are you okay?”

  
“It’ll be fine, just hurts a bit,” Bad flashes him a quick smile, and George sighs at his friend.

  
“Hold on a minute,” he says, and disappears into the treeline. They can still hear him rustling about, humming so they can track his position, occasionally murmuring to himself as he pushes through leaves.

  
“Sapnap! I need your eyes.” He calls, and Sapnap pats Bad’s shoulder, hands him the silvered longsword he has just in case, and follows George into the bushes.

George has found a patch of multicolored flowers growing among the clover under a rhododendron. Sapnap crouches, looking them over.

  
  
“I need you to help me tell which ones are purple,” George glances over the flowers, “Like, pinkish-purple. I know some of them are probably blue, but,” he shrugs, “I can’t tell.”

  
“This one is.” Sapnap points at one that George was almost certain was blue, but he trusts Sapnap more than himself, so he plucks it, “And this one, this one, this one…”

  
“Are there any orange?”  
  


“Uh, these three,” Sapnap points, and George plucks. When he has a palm full of them, he lowers the rhododendron branches and steps back, sniffling at the air. 

  
“Be back in a second, head back to Bad,” George instructs, stepping around the rhododendron. Sapnap shrugs at him in reply and does as he’s bidden.

  
  
George returns to them momentarily, one hand full of the flowers and the other wrapped around some kind of leafy plant that he waves. Bad smiles at him, but winces when he tries to move, and George shakes his head,

“Stay put.”

He withdraws a mortar and pestle from the satchel he tends to carry on outings, and grinds the leaves in with the flowers until its a sort of dry-ish paste. Then he adds a little honey from his supplies- almost like he _knew_ this would happen- until the mixture is liquid enough, taps the pestle on the side to knock off as much of the slime as he can, and kneels in front of Bad. Sapnap, taking the atmospheric hint, takes a few steps back. The longsword is drawn, and his eyes keen kept out,

“Make it quick,” He demands, and George nods as he dips a finger and begins to draw sigils in the dirt, surrounding Bad in a series of runes and glyphs that he quickly connects with a number of diamonds and lines. 

  
“Shirt,” George tells Bad, who lifts the edge of his shirt obediently so that George can scrawl a handful of matching runes on his skin below the gauze of the varying wounds. “Drop.”  
  
He steps back, and Bad does as he’s bidden, angling himself so the damp mixture touches cloth as little as possible. George steps out of the circle and kneels in front of Bad once more, at the head of the circle, and sets his hand over the northmark of the diamond. When he exhales, a cloud of green-blue light comes out with his breath and is sucked down through his palm, filling the runes outward with the same color. His eyes close, and he focuses, breathing slow and steady.  
Light seeps from under his eyelashes, curling out of his mouth, nose, ears, down his veins and into the circle until it’s ablaze, and both Sapnap and Bad have to lift an arm to guard their eyes. The light spirals up Bad’s legs into the runes on his skin, and he winces, but it’s discomfort and not pain as the wounds knit over, the blue-green stitching skin together and spreading like a salve, soothing away the ache of split muscle and fat.

The light dies down and George leans back, coughing with the exertion. Sapnap comes to his side as soon as he can see, pulling George’s hand from the ground and wincing at the burns that have coalesced on his fingers, then taking hold of George’s chin to inspect the similar burns around his eyes, leaking out of the corners, at the corners of his mouth and under his nose.

  
  
“You’re an idiot.” He says, but it’s more affectionate concern than anything. George smiles.  
  


“Shut up. It’ll heal.”

  
“Dream’s gonna lose his shit,” Sapnap grins,

  
“Language!” Bad chides, “But he’s right, you didn’t have to do that!”

  
“You wouldn’t stop flying,” George shrugs as he stands, swaying slightly with fatigue, the paste on the dirt turned now to a burnt crust. Bad kicks at it until it disperses, not so much looking like a ritual anymore.

  
“Thank you, George,” He gives George a quick hug, and the trio return on their way to the Badlands.

  
  
  


At the gate tower, Ranboo hangs from the side upside-down, staring out over the path. It’s been a fairly busy day, with Dream on Puffy’s watch, and Antfrost and Sam on his, but even busy is boring when it’s so long between visitors. Still, Puffy warned him that Bad should be returning sometime today, so he’s fairly happy hanging with his weight on his ankles, levered between the wall and the railing. Besides, he’s confident enough in his reaction times that if he fell, he’d be able to teleport before he hit the ground. Doesn’t much want to test the theory, though.

  
A black shape atop the treetops catches his eye from the distance, and he considers sitting up so his vision isn’t swimming, but it’s too far away for him to consider that right now.  
It is growing closer, though, almost to where the trees thin out. Below, he can make out another blur of color, mostly white and black, but there’s a streak of blue every now and then.

  
When they begin to be person shaped, he figures he should probably get up. The black blur in the sky, he can see now, is Bad, flying along quite cheerfully. So the others are most likely George and Sapnap- great!

Ranboo fills his lungs with air, feeling the strain of his muscles, and decides he doesn’t really want to pull something sitting up. Instead, he bursts into the spattering of purple mist and whirling dust, swooping up and teleporting to the very top of the guard tower, where he re-materialises himself and waves, clinging to the spire with one hand.

  
  
“Ranboo!” He hears Bad call excitedly from out in the sky over the road, waving back awkwardly mid-flight. 

  
  
The group approaches the gate, and Bad touches down in the guard tower control room at about the same time Ranboo shifts and re-materialises, teleporting from the roof to within.

  
  
“Hey,” he greets Bad as he takes hold of the crank and begins to raise the door, “How are you?”  
  


“I’m okay! We caught a boar, but found a nest of necrotic hornets.” Bad puts his hands on the crank to help, and Ranboo pulls a face at the mention of the hornets,

  
“New wave?” He asks, and Bad nods,

  
“Sapnap thinks so, at least. _So_ we should probably try and tone down the, uh…” he glances over his shoulders and his wings flap a little as he dissipates them into wisps of shadow. 

  
“That sucks, but hey, gotta do what we gotta do,” Ranboo shrugs, leaning back to look over his shoulder, “They’re in.”

They release the crank, and the gate closes again slowly, with Bad bidding Ranboo a quick goodbye and rushing down the stairs to meet up with George and Sapnap below.

  
  


“How’s Ranboo?” Sapnap asks as Bad emerges from the door,

  
“He’s okay! Sad about the powers thing, though,” He bounces up beside them, “Let’s find Skeppy and Dream!”

  
“They’re probably finding us,” George nods up at the hill ahead of them, where Puffy is waving, “Let’s go.”

Puffy meets them halfway up the hill, smiling. She gives Bad a big hug of greeting, and accepts one from Sapnap with the same intent,

“Skeppy had trouble sleeping, so he’s passed out by Dream,” she explains, leading them over the hill, “We didn’t want to wake him up if it wasn’t you.”

  
“Aww, he really needs his sleep, the muffin,” Bad frowns, but it’s with affection and not annoyance. 

  
Dream waves brightly as they come into view, then reaches down to shake Skeppy’s shoulder gently, waking him up.

“‘Geppy!” Bad calls, and takes off ahead of the group, outline flickering in his excitement. He manages to contain his erratic magic, but does bowl into Skeppy so hard that he overbalances moments after standing upright, and the two of them crash down to the grass.

The others come up slower, smiling at the overexcited affection shaking up from the laughter of their friends.  
Dream looks up from Bad and Skeppy to the others, and the smile drops from his face- he strides quickly to George and, much like Sapnap did, catches his chin in his hand to inspect his face.  
  


“What’d you do?” He asks, faint thunder of concern a storm in his voice,  
  


“Bad was flying, it would have opened his cuts!” George defends himself, voice somewhat by Dream’s grip on his face. Dream frowns, lifts his free hand to run his thumb gently over the curling burn marks by George’s left eye, cupping his cheek for better support. Where he touches, the burn and the pain of the marks fade out. The darkness at the edge of Dream’s vision, which had been receding slowly, begins to spider in again.

Still, he gently touches each of the marks on George’s face, smoothing the burns and the pain away.

“You’re such an idiot,” he half-laughs affectionately, and George rolls his eyes, but lets his face be held.  
  


“That’s what I said.” Sapnap chips, and George gives a snort of laughter.

Below their perception, Skeppy is halfway through laughing with a few stray tears, as Bad flops onto him, burrowing his face into Skeppy’s shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, are you okay?” Skeppy asks, setting his hands either side of Bad’s hips and squeezing gently. Bad hums, nodding against the fabric,

  
“I’m fine! George healed me up.”  
  


“Dream said it was necrotic hornets, are you sure you’re okay?” Skeppy’s concern is so obvious in his tone, Bad pulls back to look down at his face,

  
“I’m fine,” He assures, “I promise. I’m just kinda tired, but they put cure on me, and George did a ritual on the way here so I wouldn’t pull them open again.”

Skeppy makes a noise somewhere between panic and anger and pain, and Bad only smiles, sitting back on his thighs, basically in Skeppy’s lap. But hey, Skeppy can sit up, so he does so, wrapping Bad up in a proper hug that is returned enthusiastically.

“‘M glad you’re okay.” Skeppy murmurs into the fabric of Bad’s capelet, and receives a melodic hum in reply.

Dream flops back into the grass beside him, and is joined chiefly by Sapnap and George. On Skeppy’s other side, Puffy drops to sit. The group splays out on their backs, staring up at the sky and pointing out shapes in the clouds. Ranboo joins them an hour before twilight, and peace shivers through the air despite the storm clouds they’re all ignoring in the distance, crackling slowly in their direction.

That can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also hey, if you enjoyed reading, would you mind dropping a comment? Even something as simple as "<3" really helps mtivate me to keep going! I like knowing that what I'm doing matters in some way ^^


	5. A Conflict - Death to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Stars' song of the same name ("Death to Death")
> 
> On the journey home, the Dream Team is ambushed.

“We should’ve stayed with Bad and Skeppy,” Sapnap frowns, following George and Dream through the lower branches of the forest with the longsword drawn and glinting in the flecks of moonlight that make it through the canopy. They don’t dare keep an open flame for fear of drawing attention from things they’d prefer to stay hidden to.

So they’re mostly relying on sewn-in sense of direction and Dream’s weird night vision through the shaded eyes of the mask. He’s regretting the daggers now.  
George, Sapnap knows, already has an almost-complete fireball sigil written down his arm ready to launch despite the burns.

“I know, I made a shit choice, don’t keep on about it.” Dream shoots over his shoulder with the soft lightning hum of genuine anger, though it’s not directed at Sapnap.

There’s a rustle somewhere to the right and they all freeze, Dream’s hands finding the daggers in the tense silence. They stare into the underbrush, watching as a raccoon emerges and scatters across their path between their feet.  
And as much as they’d like to be relieved that the noise is simply, _just_ a racoon, they know no animal that’s calm would dare get so close to the feet of hunters.

Maybe they can escape notice. They hold their breath in, watching, waiting. Sapnap and George keep their eyes on Dream more than the leaves, his sight better than theirs.

A light trickles through darkness, interrupted by leaves where it swings by. It’s almost like a faint ember but deep pink-purple and accompanied by a sound like rolling thunder that starts barely audible and roils into a deafening roar before its owner even reaches them.  
  
Sapnap’s sword is raised, George’s fingers at the sigil with light beginning to seep out of the corner of his eyes, and Dream’s daggers pulled from their sheath.

Who would get the first shot- a question asked every time, especially when something like this is fixated on other prey. Maybe they can escape without a fight.

Dream jumps the gun, lightning jumping into the branches and launching two daggers down at the head of the monstrous not-wolf creaking through the branches.  
They’re nothing new to the hunters, but they’re dangerous, more dangerous than the hornets. Ten feet from snout to tail and bulging in places they shouldn’t be, mouths filled with roiling, burning pink-purple acid dedicated to dissolving all they get their horrific too-big jaws on. Their mouths split far past the confines of what appears to be a skull, stretching past the should-be-shoulders and lined with rows and rows and rows and rows of two-inch razor-sharp teeth, jagged and ready to rend flesh from bone.

It howls when the first dagger finds an eye, one of eight such lining the front and top of the head, bursting it into streams and rivulets of thick black-tar blood streaked with the glowing acid that fills the body and that noise, the screaming of incoming wrath, it’s the war toll for the rest of the Dream Team.   
Sapnap moves in first, longsword swing heavy and aimed not to hit but to drive back, the Wolf shifts in the sizzling undergrowth as it melts underfoot, stepping aside before the blade can meet one of its massive paws, opening it between trees and making its glowing maw a beacon to strike.

Sapnap pushes back and rolls along the floor despite the bramble thorns catching his unprotected cheeks and hair, one arm thrown across his face to protect his eyes, and George alights the symbols down his arm. The scream of fire drowns out his gritted-teeth howl of pain as fire bursts from his skin and rages like a jet through the trees, encompassing the Wolf in a massive fireball that burns for one, two, three seconds of solid ricocheting noise before the Wolf manages to stumble out and George swipes down with his blackened hand to chase it with the last embers.

The pain and distraction gives Sapnap a chance to push up to his feet, regretting that he’d let George talk him out of the kikko surcoat. There’s rows of torn fabric and skin across his waist, but those are problems for later- he shifts his weight and thrusts out, sword meeting shadow-flesh and cracking through frail bone, up to the hilt in the chest of the Wolf. It kicks at him with a hind leg and he braces for the clawed strike he won’t be able to avoid, barely managing to draw out the sword as he’s flung into a tree trunk ten feet away with foot-long inch-deep gouges from his shoulder down his ribs. His head ricochets off of the tree and he slumps into unconsciousness.

  
George shoots Dream a terrified glance that the latter doesn’t see amongst the branches. He’s basically out of the running, his entire left arm numb and blackened from the fireball, hanging limp against his side and smarting with pain at the shoulder where he can still feel anything.

Dream leaps from the branch down into the undergrowth, eyes on the dagger in the Wolf’s ruined eye. Even if he can get hold of it, it’s more likely he’ll get bitten in the process.  
He draws the shortsword with a silent thanks for Sapnap’s advice- if he’d taken the silver daggers, they would have been all he had. At least he _can_ melee with the shortsword. 

The Wolf’s attention is split between Dream- an active threat- and Sapnap- easy prey. Dream can see the remaining eyes darting around, wondering if it can snap up Sapnap and get away before Dream pins it down.

He doesn’t give it another second to think. Launching forward on his weaker foot, but dominant arm, stabbing up from the underside.

He hisses in angry pain as he finds an open mouth and acid and tooth alike sizzle through his skin, but his shortsword plunges into flesh and releases a spout of caustic blood across his gloved hands. The thin fabric isn’t much of a protection, but it’s something, he levers his weight toward the back of the Wolf’s mouth and his off hand joins his dominant, pressing into the pommel for more force as he crunches through the hard palate, rending apart bone.

  
“Dream!” He hears George’s panic, and it’s only that sound that can pull him from the creeping darkness at the edge of his vision and the flickering lightning down his burning arms across patches of dissolving skin. The electric darkness in him calls to press deeper, until his whole body disappears into the maw of the beast he’s bisecting.

George’s hand on his shoulder draws him back.

There’s a sickening squelch as he pulls down and tugs the shortsword from the Wolf’s skull, and only when George’s good hand is prying at the top of the jaw does he realise that it’s already dead and limp, suspended by its teeth digging holes in Dream’s flesh and caught on bone it didn’t have the force to break.  
George lifts the teeth out with a wince, and Dream steps out of its grasp so he can let it go.

The blood scattering the floor is an unhealthy mix of tar-black and pink streaked from the wolf, and bright crimson from Dream and Sapnap.  
Dream’s arms are ruined, acid burns from fingertip to shoulder and rended flesh almost the same distance, deep holes dug in six inches from the top of his shoulder, some all the way through where they managed to miss bone. It hurts, but Dream is no stranger to pain, and even the worst of it is just an inconvenience after the constant disintegration of the universe’s birth.

Sapnap, however, is another story. Dream moves to him before he can acknowledge his own damage, kneeling at Sapnap’s side with mouth drawn into a horrified straight line at the incredible welts down his side.

“We’re not in a good place,” he says to George, “Do you have water?”

  
“Not a lot, but yeah,” George pulls the flask from his bag, “Hands out. It’s going to hurt.”

  
“Don’t care,” Dream holds his hands out and allows George to pour a steady stream over them. He almost aggressively rinses the caustic blood and glowing acid off his palms, taking with it layers of mostly-dissolved fabric, leaving the burn scars behind.  
  


“We need Ranboo,” George glances back up the path. They’re too far now from the Badlands, and he knows it. 

  
“We need Sapnap to not die,” Dream answers through gritted teeth, sitting back at the unconscious paladin’s side and setting a clean palm against the top of the riffled lines, on Sapnap’s shoulder. He breathes out against the darkness creeping in his vision, pushing. Faint particles like dust in sunlight begin to cascade from under the mask, and George bites the inside of his cheek.

Dream’s hand comes away slick with blood, but Sapnap’s wounds are closed to at least a safe point. He doesn’t like to heal often, and as such, it’s not his most developed skill. But with one arm out of action, there’s no way George can put together a healing ritual, even if he did have the right ingredients.

  
  
“How are we going to get home?” George asks as Dream sits back, trying to fight the darkness from his eyes and ignore the glittering particles of purple swimming in his vision before they fall down his mask.  
“Your arms are fucked, one of mine is screwed, how are we going to carry him?”

  
“Don’t know, we just are.” Dream straightens, numb, damaged fingers trying to unbuckle his cloak, “I can do it.”

  
“You’re _hurt,_ ” George says, stepping up to his side,

  
“ _I can do it,_ ” Dream snaps, and George steps back, looking wounded. Guilt trickles in Dream’s chest, but he can’t let it take over. 

George and Sapnap’s safety is in his ruined, ruinous hands. He’s spent so long as a destroyer, as soon as he finds a chance to be the lover, it falls apart before his eyes. Every time, every time he thinks he might be able to live quietly with his best friends, it happens all over again.

  
  
“Hey,” George’s voice is gentle, and Dream realises he’s knelt in the undergrowth with his hands in his hair. George sits beside him, gently prying his hands away from his head despite the lingering acid clearly burning his palms.

  
“It’s okay, Dream,” George is saying quietly, his eyes soft behind his usual shaded glasses, “We’re going to manage. We’re okay, right? We’re always okay.” George wipes acid from his good hand, the soft sizzling of it eating through his jacket loud in the quiet forest. He sets the hand against Dream’s face, thumb brushing under the mask against his cheek, swiping at unseen tears.

Dream doesn’t choke, he’s perfectly silent as he leans in to George and knows he’ll be caught in a hug.  
He is, of course he is, George winds his arm across Dream’s back and holds, freeing his good hand to reach out and set over Sapnap’s. Despite his unconsciousness, it seems important to hold him in there too. It’s always the three of them against the world, even if it isn’t.

“Okay,” Dream’s voice is somewhat muffled by the hug, but he sounds calmer now, “We’re going to- I’m going to piggyback him. I need you to help me get him on my back, and we’ll have to tie him on, like a sash,” Dream draws the angle diagonal down George’s back for emphasis, and George nods against him before drawing back, and between George’s one good hand and Dream’s two fucked up ones, they manage to get Sapnap set on Dream’s back and belted to him. Sure, it’s kind of awkward, with Sapnap’s wrists tied together so he won’t slip off, and the cape looped around their chests and back diagonally to hold him in place. Dream has one arm tucked under Sapnap’s leg, the other leg is swung around his hip and unsteadily pinned by the tie of Dream’s sash, so at least there’s one partially ruined hand free.

They’re lucky that Dream’s magical immortality makes the wounds more an inconvenience than anything. If it had been either George or Sapnap to sustain the injuries that Dream has, they would be incredibly lucky to keep their arms. With massive wounds piercing all the way through in some places, and extensive acid burns down the entire length- any mortal person would be in debilitating pain. But Dream just grimaces and stands, straining with the weight of his friend but taking it in stride, he and George return to the path.  
Dream glances at George, who is tying his burnt arm into a makeshift sling so the weight doesn’t hurt as much,

  
“I- I’m sorry. I’ll heal you when we get home.”

  
“Don’t be,” George assures, tying the last knot and smiling at Dream, pushing his glasses up into his hair so he can express himself more efficiently, “We can just wait for it to heal naturally. It’s okay.”

Dream exhales and turns back to the path, trying to re-summon his soldier’s neutrality, trying to push back into the headspace of guarding, not caring. Trying to dismiss the burning bile of panic in the back of his throat thinking about just how fucked up the three of them are, knowing that another attack would doom his friends.

But then-

Then cool rough skin meets his, as George slips his good hand into Dream’s free one. And he can tell that it hurts, with the faint acid burns on George’s palm from pulling Dream’s arm down, but he squeezes gently and holds firm, even though Dream doesn’t have the fine motor control right now to properly _hold_ George’s hand in return. His nerves are shot, and it’s going to take time for them to regenerate. 

George holds anyway.

They’re quiet, the rest of the journey home. At one point, George leans his head against Dream’s shoulder despite the blood in his hair, turning his face against mostly-numb skin for a few steps before straightening up again.

They hear creaking out in the forest, on occasion, but they don’t stop again. They just keep walking, a little faster, a little quieter, tongues bitten and hands clasped, pulled in tight.

When they unlock the door to their home, there’s such sweet relief in the dim inside of the house.

It’s almost mechanical the way they move, sitting Sapnap in front of the hearth and sparking the cinderpatch into fresh wood from the pile, packed in a way that isn’t the most efficient, but is at least functional.

“Who has the bigger bed?” Dream asks, wincing as he peels partially melted fabric away from equally melted skin.

  
“Sapnap,” George replies, bottle of purified water in hand. They pull out the washbasin and sit Dream beside it, working in tandem with reams of clean muslin to clean the blood and lingering acid from Dream’s arms, one at a time, once the fabric is peeled away. It hurts, but as everything, he takes it in stride.

  
“Are you okay?” George asks quietly as he rubs down Dream’s right arm with the lightest touch he dares, trickling water down across skin. Dream shrugs, or half-shrugs, trying not to jerk against George’s touch.

  
“I’m fine.”

George eyes him. Without the glasses, his eyes seem so much more piercing, especially when he doesn’t seem to believe the words coming out of Dream’s mouth.  
But he doesn’t push it. They’ve had enough of a rough time already. Instead, he rubs acid away quietly, speaking only when he needs Dream to move.

  
Eventually, Dream is cleaned up enough, and George’s fingers ghost over the deep holes instead,

  
“Do you want me to stitch these?” he asks, looking up to meet Dream’s eyes through the mask. Even though he can’t see, he knows he has Dream’s direct eye contact.

  
Dream’s throat always catches him out in moments like this, seizing up before he can make himself reply.

  
“Yeah,” he manages hoarsely, “Please.”

  
George nods and turns away, blackened hand still held to his chest. Dream startles, reaching out and setting one damp, numb hand on George’s wrist,

  
“Wait. Give me your hand.”

  
“It’s fine,” George protests, trying to step away, “It’ll heal by itself.”

  
“George,” Dream says with a touch of force, and George sighs as he relents. Dream won’t give up, he knows that. He offers out his burnt arm, and Dream cups the limb gently, his touch so soft despite the lack of control he has over his hands right now.

  
Dream closes his eyes and exhales, the faint glowing purple particles cascading from under the mask, thicker now, brighter. Dream’s vision is almost entirely overtaken with spidering black lines, but he holds George’s arm, thumbs brushing gently over his wrist, feeling the flicker of his pulse below layers of charcoaled flesh that melt away, flaking off at the light touch as new skin grows beneath in an expedited healing process.

  
“Dream…” George’s free hand lifts to Dream’s cheek again, pushing through the waterfall of sparse particles, “You’re doing too much.”

  
“I’ll rest tomorrow.”

  
“Rest now, you’ve done enough.” George pulls his arm back, out of Dream’s grasp, “We need to get Sapnap cleaned up and in bed.”

  
A pause, Dream’s brows furrow under the mask, but the particles stop pouring like tears from his eyes. He swallows.

  
“You’re right,” and he turns toward Sapnap again. 

He’s stable now, at least, breath calm in his chest and wounds covered, though he’s still coated in blood, it’s all dry now.   
Between himself and George, Dream manages to get Sapnap mostly cleaned up and peeled out of his armor and ruined shirt. It takes time, but they each change into new, clean clothes, ones not burnt by acid or fire or torn by brambles, and they carry Sapnap through and into bed.

George and Dream stand at Sapnap’s bedside as he twitches under the covers.

“I’m staying,” says Dream, and before the words are fully out of his mouth,

  
“Me too.”

  
“Dibs on middle.” Dream climbs into the bed, though it’s just about wide enough for himself and Sapnap, and George slips in after him.   
They shift Sapnap until his head rests on Dream’s chest, ever a more comfortable pillow than the actual bedding, the trio curl in together and breathe despite the thread of tension. George falls asleep eventually, face tucked against Dream’s neck.   
  
And Dream stares up at the ceiling through his mask, the black spidering veins clouding his vision.   
  
He chews his lip, and keeps his eyes open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hewwo again if you enjoy my writing i really appreciate comments! even something as simple as "<3" really motivates me to keep writing!!
> 
> this was meant to be sapnap n dream bro cuddles but uh................................ that happened. ill be drawing the Wolf at some point.


	6. The Lull - The Yawning Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Lord Huron's song of the same name ("The Yawning Grave)
> 
> Sapnap appreciation time is interrupted.

Sapnap wakes first, when the comatose level of sleep wears off and the pain of his wound shocks through him enough to make him groan himself awake. Dream’s arm around him slips lower, further from the healed-over lines from his shoulder to the bottom of his ribs, more around his hips.

“Hey,” Dream murmurs quietly, face turned so he’s talking mostly into Sapnap’s hair, “Are you okay?”  
  


“Mmph,” Sapnap replies eloquently, brain soggy from being ricocheted between pain, sleep, and a killer concussion. Dream wriggles so his mask rides up just enough for him to put his cheek to the top of Sapnap’s head.  
  


“How bad is it?” he asks, desperately trying to keep unruly black hair out of his mouth, but not desperately enough to move.  
  


“Hurts,” Sapnap half whines, because it does. All over. Mostly the claw wounds from the kick, but his head, his back, his arms- everything aches terribly. Dream’s fingers squeeze against flesh, reassuring and questioning at the same time.  
  


“Want me to fix it?”

Sapnap tries to think through the syrupy soup that is his brain, recognising that _yes,_ he definitely _does_ want that. But also, he knows that Dream’s powers are dangerous to use at the best of times, but during a new wave? Even more so. It seems the use of any magic draws out the necrotic beasts, and being that he’s a wellspring of it, Dream is a dangerous person to be around at times like this.

“How’s your eyes?” Sapnap manages sleepily, though his face is turned almost straight against Dream’s chest. He’s so warm, so soft, so inviting. He smells like leaf litter in undergrowth, and faintly like ozone. But more than anything, Dream smells like, feels like, _is_ safety, is home. And Sapnap knows him so well, that sometimes it shakes even Dream.

He gives a quick breath, a laugh without amusement, one of shock more than anything.

  
  
“Dark,” he answers truthfully, and pauses before adding, “There was a lot of purple, earlier.”

  
“Then I’m fine.” Sapnap doesn’t move from his space, and Dream can feel the warmth of his breath directly against his ribs. It can’t be comfortable, but Sapnap maintains it anyway.

  
Dream smiles, cheek still pressed to the top of Sapnap’s head, and he closes his eyes. It’s just before dawn, according to his generally impeccable sense of time, so there’s not a lot of rest left to be had, but anything is good.

“You know I love you, right, Sapnap?” It comes out more vulnerable than he’d intended, with a waver over the _right,_ like maybe he doesn’t actually believe Sapnap knows. It doesn’t come out with the soft, affectionate amusement he wants it to. And the grip tightening on Sapnap’s hip and George’s shoulder is telling, too, so revealing that Dream’s throat burns with how much he _hates_ this weakness.

Then Sapnap’s hand creeps up, the one most injured, inching across Dream’s torso with obvious pain until Sapnap can cover almost all of Dream’s porcelain mask with it.

“I know, dumbass,” he answers directly into Dream’s chest, “I love you too.”

  
“Ngh, so d’I,” George, mostly asleep still, curls tighter across Dream to reach an arm out and cross Sapnap’s. Dream pretends he isn’t choking up.

Eventually, Sapnap’s hand slips off of his mask with his sleep claiming him, falling to rest at the side of Dream’s neck instead. Dream tries not to cling to his friends as they lay there, all three twined together, tries not to cry.

He doesn’t succeed on holding it together, but he keeps it quiet enough that they sleep through it, for the most part. When he’s getting to the crest of the breakdown, where breathing is hard and half-whistling as he tries to regulate it, George stirs.

He holds his breath, despite the burning in his lungs that comes as a result.  
  
George pushes up onto his forearm, squinting sleepily down at Dream. He’s still tucked against Sapnap’s hair, tears tracking down underneath the mask, and what skin George can see is flushed dark and colorless in the thin streaks of moonlight that are the only source of light in the room. Not that he could see how red Dream is either way, flushed from the crying and the strain of staying quiet. He knows he’s caught, but tries valiantly to stay silent anyway.

  
  
“What’s wrong, Dream?”

  
“Nothing. It’s stupid. Go back to sleep.” Dream opens his arm out invitingly, and George does lay back down, propping his chin on Dream’s shoulder, but the faint rhythm he beats with his fingertips against Dream’s collarbone tells him he’s not getting out of this.

  
“It’s okay if it’s stupid,” George says, “What is it anyway?”

Dream sighs softly, pulling Sapnap just slightly tighter against him.

“Just the usual,” he tells George, and the broken smile is audible in his voice. There’s a crack in the teary thickness, a quiver of worry. George’s tapping rhythm becomes slightly more firm, more grounding, a pattern Dream’s brain automatically picks up on and tries to match in some way. He mimics it against George’s shoulder where his arm is looped, and when he glances over, George has a faint smile on his tired face.

Dream is always scared.

He’s immortal, George and Sapnap are not. He’s gone so long as a force of destruction, because that’s how he was born. With the implosion and explosion of the birth of the universe, pulled apart a million times before he found consciousness. He’s lost count of the amount of forms he’s taken over the years, not all of them alive. The one he has right now, the mostly-human with blond hair, he’s had it for nearly three centuries. Before that he was some kind of fucked up wolf that he tries to forget. Before that a giant hornet. And back, and back, every new incarnation not so much sewn into the universe as punched out, like lightless holes.

And those things come back to haunt him.

He hadn’t cared for anything so much before Sapnap and George came barrelling into his life and caught him up in their whirlwind, starting as overexcited teenagers that he’d almost killed, but then Sapnap had turned to him despite the blade in his hand and laughed so loudly it had ricocheted off of the trees.

George had been quieter, is quieter, in some ways. Sapnap was the one that picked up the threads, making fun of Dream’s mask in a way that caught his interest. No prey he’d ever stalked before had laughed so blatantly at him, at least not in a way that made his chest stir like this. 

So yes, he’s always scared.

Sapnap could die. George could die. Either just as likely as the other, and every new wave brings with it fresh fear. Before the Dream Team, he had nothing he was so scared of losing, and it is inevitable that he will lose them. It could be tomorrow, it could be in fifty years, but he _will_ lose them and when he thinks about it, every time it crosses his mind, he doesn’t want to be immortal anymore.

“You’re thinking so _loud_ ,” George’s voice crosses his introspection, and when he turns to look, the eyes on him are soft and warm in the dim night light.

  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers back, and George gives him a small smile, the one Dream adores, where his dimples are faint but there and Dream melts inside. 

  
“It’s okay.” The rhythm stays, pattering against Dream’s collarbone, a silent symbol, a conversation they’ve had a thousand times. 

George closes his eyes again, but Dream knows he’s not really asleep. Semi-conscious, sure, but not asleep. He’s on that edge, waiting just in case Dream is trying to hide more tears from him.

But Dream doesn’t have to. He’s still scared, he’s still hurting, but he doesn’t feel like he needs to cry right now. He tries to hold onto the good instead, like the feeling of Sapnap’s breathing, chest rising and falling against him. Or George’s pattering fingers that keep going long after he’s zoned out.

God, he loves his friends so much.

  
  
  
  


When morning comes and is almost over, when the Dream Team finally clambers out of bed, they return to the main room to light the fire and inspect their wounds.

Sapnap is the most hurt of all of them, but his life doesn’t seem to be in danger at least. They inspect the furrows down his side, Dream running a fingertip gently over the puckered skin despite the shivers from Sapnap.

“This probably hit bone,” he muses, ghosting over Sapnap’s ribs whilst the latter tries to muffle faint laughter at the ticklish touch.

  
“Chipped ribs, it’s fine,” he half-chokes, and Dream gives a little snort of laughter.

  
“What do you need your ribs for anyway?”

  
“Exactly! Get rid of them. Or the bottom ones at least.”

It takes a moment for the implication to settle into Dream’s brain, and when it does, he gives a wheeze of a laugh, gently shoving at Sapnap’s lower back where the bruising isn’t as bad,

“Oh my God, shut up!”

  
“I’m just saying, dude!” Sapnap grins, and Dream catches him around the back of the neck, pulling him in so he can set his forehead to Sapnap’s. The faint outline of Dream’s eyes are visible behind the shaded lenses of the mask, a privilege only Sapnap has ever had to see.

  
“You’re an idiot,” Dream tells him with a smile, and Sapnap meets his eyes through the mask,

  
“Yeah.”

There’s a pause of warm quiet. Just a brief second of it, of the edge of the porcelain mask digging a faint line where it presses between Sapnap and Dream, and then Sapnap is the one to pull back so they can continue their inspection.

The poor bastard is black and blue all over, striped bruises in the pattern of tree bark accompanied by long scrapes where his shirt hadn’t been enough to save him, disappearing where the chestplate had protected him… somewhat, at least.  
The chestplate itself is completely ruined. It stood no chance against the seething claws of a Wolf, cuir bouilli with no metal reinforcement to back it up.

“We’ve gotta have some salve left?” Dream looks over at George, who’s midway through stripping the boar meat from the bone, face scrunched up in disgust and discomfort. It doesn't matter how many times he does this process, the uncomfortable squish of the meat and the process of taking out the fat is always unpleasant.

  
“Uh, yeah, I think there’s some in the pantry,” He says, giving the paring knife a little flick to break through a tough connection, “Not a lot left, though. And I’m kind of busy right now.”

  
“I got it,” Dream says, standing up, “Sapnap, stay put.”

  
“Yes, sir,” Sapnap rolls his eyes, sarcasm in his tone but a smile on his face. Dream heads through to the pantry, pausing along the way to ruffle George’s hair despite the noise of protest he gives.

He’s not exactly _fluent_ with George’s salves, but he’s lived with the hedge witch long enough to recognise the little colors and symbols that separate out effects. The colors are more for his and Sapnap’s benefit, though, a fact evident by the pink ribbon wound around the neck of the healing salve bottle. He picks it up, smiling fondly at it despite just how little there is left.

The salve itself is a translucent green-blue color with flecks of dark red-orange suspended throughout, and when Dream steps out of the pantry, it sheens beetle-iridescent in the sunlight. 

  
As he’s padding back through, he catches the edge of a conversation that pricks his ears,

“...Again?” George groans, “Wow, talk about _favouritism._ ”

  
“Whatever, dude,” Sapnap laughs at him, “It’s our _thing._ You guys have your flirting or whatever-”

  
“ _What._ ”

  
“-And I get to see his eyes.” Sapnap finishes as though George had never spoken, and Dream can practically _hear_ the shrug in his voice. The theory is backed up by a quiet hum of pain, and George calling him an idiot.

And then quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that Sapnap and Dream both recognise now, the kind of quiet that tells them George is thinking, he wants to speak but is struggling to find the words. So they both wait for him. They always do.

“What- what do they look like?” The hesitance in George’s voice is so… strange. There’s not a lot that he’s vulnerable about, and less that he’ll openly express. He’s incredibly skilled at keeping his weak spots hidden, even when those weak spots are his two best friends.

  
“His eyes?” Sapnap asks, but it’s rhetorical- he knows what George means. “I guess- I mean, I’ve only seen them through the mask, so I’ve never seen the color-”

  
“We know they’re green, he’s told us,” George interjects, and Sapnap hums before he continues,

  
“But- yeah. He has, like- they’re pretty, I guess? That’s how you’d describe them.” There’s emphasis on the _you,_ “He has long eyelashes. Dude, if he didn’t wear the mask- put eyeliner on him, not even the hornets could resist it.”

  
“Wow,” George laughs, and even though there’s genuine amusement, there’s something else behind it too. 

“I heard I’m being complimented?” Dream chooses this moment to enter, tries to make sense of the semi-terrified glance that George gives him. Sapnap shrugs,

  
  
“Don’t know, maybe you were. Depends whether you got the salve.”

  
“Oh, I have it,” Dream wiggles the bottle,

  
“I was complimenting the _shit_ out of you. Pretty eyes, good face structure, all that good shit.” Sapnap rolls his shoulders slightly, “Please slather me up.”

Dream kneels at Sapnap’s back and uncorks the bottle, beginning his slow work of rubbing the salve into Sapnap’s bruises and scrapes.  
He aims more for the bigger ones, the ones that weren’t terribly dangerous, but ache regardless. The massive welts down his side are bad, but the salve won’t help too much with those.

Sapnap hisses occasionally despite the light touch Dream is trying to have, and Dream murmurs apologies in reply. The salve is actually helping his own acid burns, unintentionally so, as it smears across his palm and fingers when he’s smoothing it across the medley of multicolored bruises.

The salve is always an interesting sensation, cooling at first and then tingling into warmth, a comfortable kind as it absorbs into skin and dries. It’s nice, and Sapnap lets out a soft sigh, slumping forward somewhat when Dream finishes and the cork returns to the bottle. 

“You okay?” Dream asks, despite the fact he’s now basically laid across Sapnap’s back. What can he say? He craves warmth. It sucks ass that he can’t make his own. And Sapnap is very warm.

  
“Better now,” Sapnap agrees, “I should probably put my shirt back on.”

  
“Mm. In a minute, I’m warm.” Dream shifts, hair splaying across the back of Sapnap’s neck, and finds himself gently elbowed off.

  
“Let me put my clothes on, jeez, Dream,” It’s teasing, accompanied by a flash of a grin as he pulls his shirt back over his head, “If you really want my clothes off-”

  
“Alright, don’t finish that!” Dream wheezes over laughter, flopping down to the floor. He swears he can _hear_ George rolling his eyes.

  
  
  


On they continue. They set the meat in the prep room to dry, coated in the salt-and-spice mixture they use to preserve it. They sew up tears in their clothes, scrub blood from hair, treat wounds on one another the same way they always do.

Dream sits on the rooftop when George and Sapnap sleep, and they hear the occasional scuffle outside as he works with the axe, separating bodies from heads on whatever oversized shadow polecat decides that it wants to show up today.

When he comes inside in the mornings, it's almost always to George making porridge and that’s not what he really needs after a night of slaughter, but he appreciates it nevertheless. They sit in silence on the sofa with the soft clacking of spoons on bowl. Sometimes, George will lean against Dream’s shoulder the same way Sapnap does. Those are good days.

But the best days are when Dream comes in with tar-like blood splattered up his arms, hair ruffled, scrapes and scratches all across his body. Exhausted and aching and awful.

And Sapnap is awake first. And he turns to Dream dragging himself in through the door, opens his arms, and Dream falls into the hug with his axe clattering to the ground, taking fistfuls of Sapnap’s shirt at his back as he clings to his threads of humanity with all he can.

  
  
  


It’s about three weeks after the Wolf attack that George summons Sapnap to come with him foraging, leaving Dream at home in charge of cooking that evening’s meal. Cooking is tedious, and getting him to do so is a chore, but it’s always so good when he does. He’s been alive for infinity, of course he’s a good cook.

George and Sapnap trawl through the undergrowth, gathering the various supplies George needs to work on salves. It’s mostly George pointing at flowers and asking which ones are pink.  
  
They bundle up the different things with string and brown paper to keep them separate, laying them carefully in the little wicker basket that George keeps on hand.

They’re about an hour in when Sapnap glances over at George, midway through binding a bunch of yarrow leaves together,

“Hey,” he says, the tentative voice that bristles up George’s back because he knows there’s a serious conversation coming.

  
“What?”  
  


“Dream.” There’s no more to the sentence. Sapnap’s eyes are on George, and George’s eyes are firmly on the undergrowth as he suddenly becomes incredibly invested in finding wood sorrel at the base of the strawberry plants he’s rooting through. He hums in a way he hopes is noncommittal, and Sapnap sighs, kneeling beside him and pushing aside a patch of longer strawberry vines to reveal the sorrel underneath.

  
“Thanks,” says George, taking his knife to the stems as delicately as he can. Sapnap watches him silently, and only when George is sitting back to take the string from Sapnap’s yarrow bundle does he speak again.

  
“You’ve been weird with me for weeks. What’s going on? Did I do something?” He knows he didn’t, but it’s the best way to pry the truth out of George without fighting for it.

  
“No! You didn’t do anything, shit-” George sighs, holding the sorrel in one hand and scrubbing his face with the other, bumping his glasses around, “I’m sorry. I don’t like how I’ve been feeling lately.”

  
“Which is?” Sapnap prompts gently, and George deliberately doesn’t look at him as he ties the sorrel bundle.

  
“I just- you and Dream… I know it’s us three against the world, but,” he bites his lip, considering his words, “You seem sometimes, like… you’re so much closer. Like you’re the favourite.”

  
“Oh,” says Sapnap, genuinely shocked, “But- you know he loves us both, dude. And if it came down to it, I’d fight for you first. He can’t die. You can.”

  
“I know, I know,” George puts the sorrel bundle in the basket, takes the yarrow to do the same, “I just- my problem is, more than anything… I want to be the favourite.”

Oh. There it is.

Sapnap has known for ages. Years, maybe, even if George hasn’t realised himself, yet. Sapnap isn’t going to push it, though. They’ve been friends long enough that he knows George will only retract into himself if Sapnap even tries to suggest it could mean more than he thinks.  
But-

“No, you don’t.” He says firmly, and George gives him a weird look,

  
“I do! That’s the thing, I want to be the favourite. And that’s- that’s not fair to you.”

  
  
Sapnap shakes his head,

  
“No, you don’t want to be the favourite. If you did, you’d be pushing me down, not talking to me about it. You just want to be different.”

George wrinkles his nose as he frowns at him. Sapnap laughs at the face he makes.

“He loves us, and you know it. You just want to be loved differently.”

  
“Sapnap, what on _earth_ are you talking about? Make sense much?”

  
“Mmm, no. I don’t think I will.”

George squints. Sapnap meets his gaze levelly, expression betraying exactly nothing except how smug he is that George is so completely fucking baffled. He won’t explain, but the seed of the idea has been planted in George’s head.

  
“You’re my favourite, though.” It’s only partially an exaggeration. George and Sapnap have been together since they were old enough to toddle into one another’s lives. Sapnap has almost given his life for George so many times, and he’s the true reason George has this freedom.   
They love Dream. Of _course_ they love Dream, there is no universe where they possibly couldn’t. They adore him wholeheartedly, but it’s a different bond between the two of them to them and Dream. Sapnap means what he said; if it came down to a choice between protecting George or Dream?

He’d pick George.

George, who once looked over at him from his spot on the throne as a child and pulled a stupid face, just to make him laugh. Even though it got him in trouble.

George, who picked up a sword and learned to fight just so he could pass the knowledge onto Sapnap, earning him a place as a royal knight.

George, who stood between Sapnap and the captain because _Sapnap_ means nothing, and the captain can beat him. But George was the prince, and if even a hair was out of place on his head… 

“I- you’re- you too.” George says, confused that the words feel true, and Sapnap pulls him into a hug that George would never initiate but leans into. Sapnap gives the best hugs, encompassing him in warmth and affection.

  
  


  
They return to the house quiet but stood close, and when food is served up, George sits beside Sapnap close enough that their knees knock together when they shift. Dream watches them with curiosity in the minor shift.

  
The evening draws on, and the food is finished fairly fast. Dream gets buried in compliments of his cooking and laughs it off, the same way he tends to when he’s genuinely embarrassed that he’s proud of something.

Sapnap and Dream lounge out on the couch, Dream laid back against Sapnap’s chest as they both read through a couple of the short stack of books that Tubbo had brought over a few days before. George sits by the fire, poking at it with the iron rod they honestly mostly use for spearing apples against trees for fun.

He looks sulky, almost, but trying desperately not to let it show. Both Sapnap and Dream glance over a few times, sharing looks between them of concern and confusion.

“You do it,” Sapnap whispers after the fourth or fifth shared glance,

  
“No, fuck off, you.” Dream whispers back.

  
“You’re the bottom of the pile, you do it.” 

Dream sighs.

“George, you know you can join the cuddle stack, right?” He asks, and George glances over. His glasses are perched atop his head, sending hair in every which direction, and he rumples his nose a little,

“Not really a cuddle stack, you’re reading.”

  
“Okay, the homie stack. C’mon, you’re always invited.” Dream pats his chest to emphasise the point, and George pretends to be exasperated as he stands and makes his way over to lie against Dream’s chest, legs curled up against himself so the three of them can actually fit.

At some point, George falls asleep. They’re not sure when, they just know that they’re reading with occasional jabbering from George, and then there’s silence.

And silence.

The crackling of the fire is the only thing they really hear, and it feels so pleasantly domestic to just sit like this and read, all cosied up together.

But as with everything in their lives, their happiness is temporary.

Dream estimates it’s in the early hours of the morning when he hears the first snap of branches and sits up, one arm around George to stop him falling, but definitely waking him up.

“What’s wrong?” Sapnap asks as George groans and rubs his eyes, foggy from sleep. Dream’s hand has a tight grip against his shoulder, protective and afraid.

  
“Something’s coming. Outside. Sapnap, get armor on-” And he slips out from under George quickly, pausing to kiss the top of his head before he rushes to the room they call his.

Does he have time for armor? The buckles are such a pain in the ass. 

No, he doesn’t have time for armor.

He strips his hoodie off of himself and sets it safely aside, unwilling to risk it even in a dangerous situation. George gave it to him. He’d rather die.

(Not that he can, but the sentiment is there.)

He grabs the rapier and the axe from the rack, one in either hand. The axe is in the right, rapier in the left- even though he’s functionally ambidextrous, he still has more strength in his right shoulder, and he’s tactical before all else.

He passes Sapnap’s room on the way to the front door, glancing inside to see his friend struggling into the kikko surcoat and silently praising the choice. It might not be as effective as the full plate that they do have on hand, but it’s so much faster to get into.

George comes up behind him, pulling the reinforced jacket on, bracers in one hand.

“More than that.” Dream demands, and shifts off. George turns back toward his room, twinging with annoyance but trusting Dream’s intuition more than anything.

Dream emerges into the front garden, the wind warm and tousling his hair around the mask. There’s no moonlight tonight, but the stars are glittering bright. If it wasn’t for the tension palpable in the air, it would be a wonderful night.

There’s silence. A silence so absolute that it’s unsettling. Not even the wind rustles the branches, no crickets in the undergrowth, no owls in the sky.

Dream’s fingers tighten around his axe. His throat tightens in tandem, adrenaline threatening in a drumbeat baseline under his pulse, a thread of white attention trailing behind his vision as he scans the treeline and watches for any shadow shifting but finds stillness.

Like he’s stepped into a photograph, a snapshot of the drawn wire of tension with the metallic taste of static and fear at the back of his tongue, the edge of the axe sharpened and held so close to his leg that its cut partway through the denim.

A hum begins some short distance away in the forest. It’s quiet, but compared to the dead silence, it feels so loud.

There’s the creak of the door from behind him, and Sapnap steps up on his right. George comes up on his left with sigils already half-scrawled around his arm, his free hand comes to rest at the small of Dream’s back.

There’s the sound of cracking and crackling, a juxtaposition between twigs and firelight, but in bursts, quiet, growing nearer. Dream glances at his friends, poised anxious, and knows they don’t hear it yet. So a half mile out, and he can’t tell the direction. 

George presses closer in to him, and Sapnap shakes out the tails of the whip. The longsword is sheathed at his hip, and the whip trails along the still grass.

More cracking, closer now, he sees Sapnap and George’s heads whip around to the right where the cobblestone path sits maybe five hundred feet out. So the movement is fast, it’s been mere seconds, or has it been hours? He should be able to tell but in this moment, with his breath burning in his lungs, he can’t.

The cracking is consistent, charging toward them and followed imminently by rumbling like thunder and the screech of magic. The air smells now like sulphur and bone dust, the haze of darkness edging in like fear in their vision.

Closer still, three hundred feet. Two hundred. George’s sigils are alight on his left, symbols of chains and holding, unsure what they’re fighting. 

A hundred feet and the axe raises, electricity crackles around Dream’s feet and static burns in his fingertips.

The trees part in an explosion of darkness, flame-licks of shadow winding around the grass and seeping life from the roots with sulphurous malice. A hulking shape so much larger than the wolf, easily twenty, twenty-five feet with sprawling wings that seem to be shaped like dread from every glance taken, and pure-white eyes that seethe and flicker, arms long and clawed at the end with sword-blades of wrath, a monster made of emotion solidified into darkness and a lashing tail.

With a heart-spade tip.

A monster familiar.

The weapons drop and Dream steps up, into the roiling darkness despite the pain of being so close. He sets a hand on- in- where the leg should be in silence, makes a gesture as though to hug the shadow flesh despite being unable to feel its solidity.

The thunder rumbling and sulphur smell lessens, the shape flickering, shrinking, the wings dissipating as clothes re-form on a far more humanoid shape and Bad collapses into Dream’s chest crying. Dream holds him.

“We’re here,” he says despite the burns all across his body, “We’re here. It’s going to be okay. What happened?”

Bad chokes across all the magic he’s exuded in what seems to be a path of terror all the way here.

“ _Skeppy,_ ” he says through tears, “The Badlands- Skeppy- Dream, help.”  
  


“What’s happened?”  
  


“Sam and Ant are fighting, they’re trying, but they’re- they’re- _Skeppy,_ ”  
  


“What happened to Skeppy?” Sapnap comes up, rubbing soothingly into Bad’s back. Bad half-wails, shaking with exhaustion and terror and anguish as he lifts his head from Dream’s shoulder,

  
“He’s gone. I- he- it- the Badlands… it’s gone. It’s all _gone._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha cliffhanger go brr
> 
> slams down hands appreciate sapnap you muffins
> 
> (tell me im a bastard if u wish it fuels me)  
> as usual, comments, even something as simple as "<3" really help motivate me to keep writing!


	7. The Gathering - Art of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Metric's song of the same name ("Art of Doubt")
> 
> The scramble for backup is underway, giving a little window into the lives of the people around the Dream Team.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Important note before chapter: Character death is temporary. This fic won't cover permanent character death, at least not of anyone that isn't already dead (Schlatt).  
> Resurrection rituals are a thing I will be using.

It feels as though numbness sets in the same time the panic does, and it’s an odd sensation to be buzzing with terror whilst keeping every thought in incremental order.

They take Bad inside and make him eat and drink despite the panic he exudes when they press the jerky into his hands. Not one of them feels remotely okay about the way he begs and cries, or the betrayal in his eyes when they tell him they won’t do _anything_ until he has food and water in him. He sniffles in silence throughout his meal, and it’s so visible how much effort it’s taking him to keep it down.

George, Sapnap, and Dream convene in the opposite corner of the room, one eye on Bad to make sure he doesn’t just run out.

“We’re going to need backup,” Dream says lowly, “I could fight it myself, but it would take too long. I don’t want to put you in danger, but…”  
  


“You know we’ll put ourselves in danger, even if you try and fight it alone.” Sapnap prods at his side, and Dream crumples over it despite himself. He has physical weaknesses. He’s only non-human.  
  


“Yeah, so I’m going to do my best to protect you on the field.” It’s serious despite the hand he claps over his ribs to protect himself from Sapnap’s pokey little fingers, his gaze levelled at his friends through the mask, “We need a plan, and we need backup.”

They glance over at Bad, who’s onto his third strip of jerky and halfway through the mug of water they’ve pushed on him, and they figure it’s enough to at least get him in on the planning. So they circle up, worry making their shoulders pull tight.

“We need what’s happening,” Dream splays his hand on the stone in front of the spot Bad is sat, fire crackling away beneath him, “What you’re fighting, where it’s happening, what- what happened to Skeppy.”

  
His voice cracks over the last part, because he can make the assumption. 

Bad’s face crumples again and the tears begin to flow, but he forces himself to speak despite the hiccups and stutters,

“Some kind of monster. Just one, but it’s _so big,_ it’s so- it’s so powerful. Skeppy tried to fight it with- with a sword, and it-” a broken wail cracks into his words, and Sapnap shifts to put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him in comfortingly. Bad visibly shakes as he tries to compose himself, taking deep, gasping breaths.

  
“Swords don’t work,” George murmurs to Dream as Sapnap tries his best to soothe Bad, “So you’ll need magic. Phil, Tubbo, Wilbur-”

  
“Okay.” Dream says, immediate, surprising George. It’s widely known that the past power struggle between Wilbur’s forces and Dream’s makes their relationship tense at best and violent at worst.

  
“And we’ll need to be fast.” George adds, and he sees the way Dream’s hidden expression clouds over with thought. Bad seems to find his words in this moment, swallowing down tears.

  
“Skeppy went out against it first, so Ant and Sam could get their armor on. He told me to stay back, and I thought- I didn’t know it’d be like _that._ I followed him and it just… tore him open.”

  
“ _What._ ” George’s word isn’t as much a question as it is an utterance of horror, but Bad nods anyway,  
  


“It was awful. It just- it picked him up and just,” he makes a tearing motion with his fingers, where the tips have become claws. It seems the numbness is setting in, the tears beginning to subside, but Bad does splay his hands out as though cupping something.  
“He was all gem on the inside, like the ones that grow sometimes. All his organs, everything… even though there was a lot of blood.”

  
Sapnap can feel his stomach turning, but holds Bad’s shoulders regardless. There’s a sort of morbid fascination in the way Bad is speaking, now, a hollowness in the recount that terrifies the others. He’s teetering on a knife’s edge of losing himself, and they can’t afford that, in multiple ways.

“It’s okay. We’ll get him back.” Dream assures, and Bad looks at him with tears drying on his cheeks,  
  


“We were meant to be using less magic…”  
  


“I don’t think it particularly matters right now,” Dream shrugs, “And on that note… where’s Ranboo?”

  
“Ranboo?” It’s distant, like thinking about it takes an ungodly amount of effort. The burns across Dream’s body pulse in pain as Bad’s outline flickers,

  
“Ranboo,” Dream repeats, setting a hand on Bad’s shoulder and patting his cheek with the other, “Focus, Bad. We need you. Skeppy needs you. _Where’s Ranboo?_ ”  
  


“He wasn’t on lookout this evening.” Bad still sounds vaguely hollow, but he’s not flickering so much, “That was- yeah. He might be- I think he has a camp out by Punz’s tower.”  
  


“Right.” Dream says, and ducks in to kiss the top of Bad’s head gently, right between the horns, “I’ll be back soon.”

And he dissipates into lightning on the spot, crashing out of the door with the force of a hurricane, leaving the others behind to prepare for war.

  
  
  


Ranboo is, this evening, in camp outside Puffy’s house. His fellow lookout may not have the room for him to bed down in, but she’d sat by the campfire with him for hours trading stories and snacks. She’s an incredible friend to have, and he thinks himself lucky that he has all of these people as he’s resting in his sleeping bag.

The smell of ozone shocks him awake and he sits up to Dream crashing into solidity against the side of the tent, knocking the key pegs out and making the whole thing tremble and crack.

“Dream?” He asks sleepily, and Dream turns to him with full panic behind the mask, which he tugs up quickly, almost aggressively.  
Ranboo yawns despite the flickering purple around Dream’s eyes. His pupils have become slitted, the striations of the glowing green around them clearly visible as they narrow to slithers, his sclera are fully darkened with the exertion of his magic. Black, viscous liquid is beginning to leak like tears from the corners, and he swipes at it with the back of his hand.  
  


“Ranboo,” Dream is breathless, struggling to catch himself. Ranboo can see the split-seconds where he becomes a writhing mass of electric before re-solidifying.   
  


“How much armor?” Ranboo’s tone is still casual, but he’s not slow climbing out of bed and pulling the leather from his satchel. Dream shakes his head,  
  


“Need you to stay out of the fight. Need you to get backup.” Dream is still scrubbing at his eyes, despite the soft sizzling of acid on skin. Ranboo sighs as he steps in to force Dream’s arm down,  
  


“Here,” he reaches up and swipes it away with his right thumb, tries to do the same with the left and hisses as the acid burns into white skin. He thinks that should be curious. He’ll worry about it later. He simply switches and uses his right hand to clean it away instead.  
  


“Thanks.” Dream huffs like a sigh, pushing a hand into his hair in evident stress, “I’m sorry, I know it’s late.”  
  


“That’s okay,” Ranboo replies without even the barest hint of resentment or anger, “What’s happening? Who do you need?”  
  


“Something is attacking the Badlands. It- it killed Skeppy, it’s _incredibly_ dangerous, nothing Bad’s ever seen before. And swords don’t seem to work. We need Wilbur, Phil, Tubbo…”  
  


“Sure, of course,” Ranboo is already at the tent flap, ready to go, “Anything else?”

A pause. Dream blinks and meets Ranboo’s eyes- or eye, as he focuses so specifically on the right, a mirror of his own fucked-up eldritch symbol.

“Say nothing.”  
  


“As always.” Ranboo salutes, and in a burst of purple dust and glittering particles, he’s gone. 

Dream takes a half-second to pull a breath in and his mask down before he’s out of the tent and at Puffy’s door, the twinkling nightlights of the mushroom house too peaceful for the scenario. He knocks, tries so hard to make it not so panicked, not so afraid.

Puffy answers the door rubbing her eyes, queries half-formed on her lips before she sees Dream and says nothing, just pulling him into a hug. He lets the silence hang for a second, three.

“Where?” Puffy asks as he finally finds the ability to pull his arms around her, too.  
  


“The Badlands.”  
  


“Casualties?”  
  


“Skeppy dead.”

A sharp intake of breath.

“I’ll be there soon.”

And her arms shift and close around nothing but static as Dream dissolves away from the hug, lime-green lightning streaking away from her across the dirt, back toward the cabin and the Dream Team.

Puffy turns with a sigh and unearths her old armor.

  
  
  


It’s been far too long since Ranboo travelled so far, and it’s not like he’s been teleporting much at all lately anyway. But regardless, the whirlwind of purple dust and glittering particles hurricanes through the forest, weaving around branches and trunks, trying desperately not to get distracted as he whirls past foxes and badgers in the undergrowth.

Eventually- soon, really- he comes up on the outer ring walls of L’Manberg.

L’Manberg’s walls are different to the Badlands, lower and far easier to cross. But they’re also different in that L’Manberg’s power is in its ruling more than its physical defences- sure, the Badlands is stacked full of powerful fighters ready to draw swords, and L’Manberg is full of… mostly regular people.

But being full of regular people is what makes it so hard to damage. In a place where everyone knows everyone, there’s no way to take on just _one_ person in the town. They’re a collective, and hurting one will hurt them all, as heavily evidenced by the time Sapnap got into a full on brawl in the middle of the street after accidentally kicking one of Niki’s pet foxes. 

(He’d panicked.)

Ranboo draws up to a guard post, and he does think for a moment that he could go straight in, over the walls, right to Tubbo’s house. But that would be rude, and more than anything, he really doesn’t want Technoblade to stab him… again.

It really, _really_ sucked the last time.

He takes a second or two more than he’d like to admit figuring out how to rebuild himself, but he does eventually manage to reform himself, shaking off the last wisps of purple smoke as he looks up the fifteen-ish feet to the guard room.

He spies the very tips of a pair of twitching ears over the edge, and can’t help a grin at the mischief that bubbles up within him. He could teleport up, but that seems less fun- instead, he eyes the rough brick of the tower and begins to climb.

How his soft grunts _don’t_ wake Fundy, he’ll never know. But he manages to get up to the steel support beam a foot and a half to the side of Fundy’s sleeping form and lashes an arm around it to steady himself, then reaches out with the other- the white arm, no acid- to ruffle Fundy’s hair under the half-fallen hat. He startles and sits up, hand going for his sword before he spots Ranboo grinning at him, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Ranboo? What the fuck, man, it’s like three in the morning?”

  
“Yeah, there’s an emergency. Just wanted to let you know I’m coming in.” Ranboo shrugs, letting out a noise of panic as it jostles him against the stone.

  
“What’s happening?” Fundy is standing now, more relaxed but with the threads of concern still sewn into him like the soldier he’s meant to be, and Ranboo huffs, the smile fading,

  
“Something is attacking the Badlands, and Dream needs backup to help. Uh- Skeppy… Skeppy’s dead.”

Silence for a beat.

Fundy blinks at him.

“What?”

  
“Yeah, it’s bad.” Ranboo is beginning to shake with the strain of holding himself up on the side of the tower, and Fundy’s face twists into something almost like anger. For a brief second, Ranboo feels the ice cold dread settle into him- he doesn’t want to make Fundy angry. Fundy is his friend. He just wants to be calm, he doesn’t want to panic-

  
“What are you still doing here, Ranboo?” Fundy’s voice isn’t angry, though, it’s _scared._ Scared and tinged with grief of loss, hurting and aching and cracked open to show the pulsing red heart within, “Go on, get backup. I’ll- I’ll get the town into lockdown.”  
  
And he turns for the stairs without another glance, giving Ranboo the cue to dissipate right back into mist and hurtles through the streets of L’Manberg toward Tubbo’s home. He passes by Niki and has to resist the urge to stop and say hello, though he does hear his name called after him as he whirls around her ankles and onward across the boarded streets, past the bee house, up to Tubbo’s door and solidifies himself once more, knocking before he’s even reassembled his whole body.

There’s a pause and shuffling, and then an upstairs window cracks open. Tommy’s head pops out, squinting,

“Ranboo, what the fuck?” He asks, irritated, rubbing at his eye with the back of his wrist.

  
“There’s an emergency, Skeppy is dead, we need backup.” Ranboo’s head is craned back to meet his eyes, trying to express the urgency he should be feeling, but isn’t quite. Tommy blinks at him.

  
“I’ll get Tubbo.”

  
“Armor up, I’m going to get Phil and Wilbur.” Ranboo steps back from the door, and Tommy nods as he turns,

  
“I’ll meet you in the square!” He calls, pulling at the window. Ranboo nods but doesn’t answer, already bursting into smoke to whirl across the boards and stilts of the town toward the next closest house- Wilbur’s, though Phil lives just beside him.

  
  


“Wil- _bur!_ ” He calls instead of knocking, because he knows it’s more likely to rouse him, “ _Wilbur, get up!_ ”

  
“Fuck off!” He hears, muffled from behind the door. So Wilbur has, once again, fallen asleep in the main room.

  
“Emergency!” Ranboo calls, and chooses now to pound on the door. Whilst he waits for what he’s sure is a string of curse words, he heads over to Phil’s house. As he raises his fist to knock on the front door, it opens, and Ranboo takes a step back from the shadow of Technoblade in the doorway.

  
“What emergency?” He asks, eyeing Ranboo through the pig skull mask. It’s amazing how fast the dramatics of the groups (Techno and Dream) can put those things on, really.

  
“Badlands under attack, Skeppy dead, swords not working. They need backup, and asked for Phil, Tubbo, and Wilbur specifically.”

Techno squints at him, but doesn’t hesitate to call out,

“Phil!”

  
“I heard!” Comes the reply, “I’m getting my armor!”

  
“I’ll get mine, too. You’re taking us?” Techno is still squinting at Ranboo, who nods, albeit nervously.

  
“Tubbo and Tommy are meeting us in the town square, and Fundy is putting L’Manberg into lockdown in case it comes this way.”

  
“So he is good for something,” Techno grumbles, “We’ll catch up with you in the square.”

And the door closes. Wilbur’s laugh echoes in Ranboo’s ears and he turns to find the man himself leaning against his doorframe.

“What’s funny?” Ranboo half-demands, but it sounds so pathetic. Wilbur shakes his head,

  
“Nothing, that’s why I’m laughing. Alright, it’s going to take them a minute- get in here and get something to eat whilst you can.” and he steps inside, holding his door open for Ranboo, who shakes his head,

  
“I’m fine-”

  
“You won’t be, and you don’t know how long this will take. You have time. Get something to eat.”

Ranboo acquiesces, following Wilbur into his home.  
It’s relatively tidy, which almost surprises Ranboo. Wilbur doesn’t strike him as the type of person to be ordered when he’s not under scrutiny, but the neat piles of garbage ready to be taken away are quickly proving his assumption wrong.  
He’s pressed into an exceptionally soft and squishy armchair by Wilbur, and doesn’t resist the silent command to stay, fingers kneading against the spongey fabric.

It’s maybe thirty seconds before Wilbur returns with a plate and a mug, and Ranboo does wonder momentarily how he put this together so fast, but decides better of asking. He takes the offered food and drink with murmured thanks, and Wilbur perches on the arm of the chair, looking out of the window as he sips at his own drink.

“You don’t have to drink it all,” he says without looking, knowing Ranboo is eyeing the cup of coffee dubiously, “But it’ll help tonight.”

There’s a tone in his voice that sounds off, like a distant bell, one that pricks Ranboo’s ears.

“You’ve seen things about it, huh?”

There’s a pause, as though Wilbur is considering lying. He seems to decide better of it, nodding solemnly,

“Yeah, I’ve seen a few different lines. I’d say I’m scared, but I don’t think I can be scared anymore.”

  
“Felt that,” Ranboo agrees, sipping at the coffee and wrinkling his nose at the taste. Wilbur gives him a look from the corner of his eye, and Ranboo guiltily picks up a slice of the toast too.

It’s spread with some sort of berry preserve, sugary and tart at the same time, and wildly different to so much of what Ranboo has been eating lately. It’s almost a system shock, as Wilbur’s attention turns back to his window. He shifts, crossing his ankles against the windowsill and taking another swig of his coffee.

“This isn’t going to be good.” He says after a few moments of silence, “Even in the best outcomes, it still isn’t good.”

  
“Anyone dead in those best outcomes?” Ranboo asks, though it’s more idle conversation than genuine curiosity. Wilbur gives a humorless laugh, drinking to delay his reply.

  
“Do you really want to know?”

Ranboo sighs.

“No.”

  
“Then don’t ask. Are you feeling okay? Physically?” He turns his attention back to Ranboo, who shrugs,

  
“I’m tired, I guess, but it’s fine. I’ll live.” Ranboo shrugs slightly, holding the mug to his mouth so it doesn’t spill, then taking another swig and pulling another face. The taste really doesn’t get better.

Wilbur pats his shoulder genially,

“Sorry you have to get pulled into this,” He sounds genuinely apologetic, and Ranboo shakes his head,

  
“I’d rather help out than sit by. It’s- this is good. It’s not good, but it’s good. Even though everyone has their sides, we still… work together, I guess. Against the common enemy. It’s been so much worse.”

  
“And I thought I was weird and cryptic- oh. There’s Phil, we should go.”

Ranboo nods and throws back the rest of the coffee, grimacing around the edge of the mug. Wilbur sets his own on the windowsill and gestures,

“Just leave it there, I’ll get it if I come home.”

  
“If?” Ranboo asks, knowing that Wilbur won’t answer that, so he gives him something else instead, “I didn’t think you’d be the caring type.”

Wilbur shrugs as he shoulders his heavy coat on, glances at Ranboo, and tosses one at him too,

“Phil’s always said that you should look after people, and he’s busy right now. Figured I should probably fill in for him. Put that on, you’re going to freeze,” the last comes as Ranboo just stares at the fabric in his hands, looking utterly baffled.  
  
He acquiesces as he always seems to, pulling the coat on despite the fact it’s too broad for his frame and hangs in much the same way a sack would. It’s still warm, though, and that seems to be what matters.

They leave the house to meet up with Techno and Phil on the boardwalk outside. Phil has his usual armored coat pulled over what appears to be scale mail, helmet held under his arm. They all know he prefers to wear the hat until it becomes absolutely necessary to remove it.  
Techno is in half plate, helmet already on, sword strapped at one side and war pick on the other.

“Let’s head to the square, yeah?” Phil glances over all of them, “Tommy and Tubbo should be ready by now.”

  
“Do you have everything you need for spells?” Wilbur asks, withdrawing his kalimba from his pocket. Of course, he’d never risk any of the guitars in a serious fight. He’s always been this way. Phil nods affirmatively, patting the satchel at his side,

  
“Ready for anything.”

  
“Not for this,” Wilbur warns dubiously, already striding toward the square, making Ranboo scramble to keep pace with him. Phil and Techno follow behind a few steps, leaning in toward one another and exchanging quiet words that Ranboo can’t hear, but make him nervous regardless. He tries to soothe himself- Phil is his friend, there’s nothing dangerous about his whispers. And sure, Techno has stabbed him more than a few times, but that’s just how Techno shows friendship.

They come up on the square, the oil lanterns are lit and casting light across the boards and the planters, the leaves rustling faintly in the breeze, the color of the flowers leeched away by the night. Tubbo and Tommy are stood in the centre with a small group around them- Fundy, shaking out the flame he’d used to light the lanterns, is the first to see the group approaching. He waves, and beside him, Niki’s attention darts from Tubbo to Ranboo. She hurries over and hugs him briefly, warmly,

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”

  
“You were rushing, it’s okay.” She assures, patting his back fondly before stepping back. Behind her, Quackity lifts a hand,

  
“I’m coming with.” He says, stretching his wings out behind him.

They’re so different to Phil’s, despite both being feathered. Phil’s are heavy and black, and _maneuverable,_ the joint connecting them to his back more like a second shoulder than, say, an elbow. He’s able to angle and rotate his wings in such odd ways, as opposed to Quackity’s.  
  
Quackity may lack the finer maneuverability of Phil’s wings, but he’s _fast,_ built lightweight and almost-thin, feathers almost blade-like, more smooth than Phil’s. It could be argued that Phil seems to have a permanent layer of down on the inside of his wings, but it really is more a representative of his personality, manifesting in the magic that grows from within him. He’s an angel of death without a doubt, but he _cares,_ more than most- if not all- of the people Ranboo, at least, has met. Not that he exactly remembers it all, but the feelings tend to stick around.

When he manages to wrangle his thoughts back into his body, Wilbur is toe-to-toe with Quackity with voice’s low but angry, sending Ranboo’s hair standing on edge again.

“What if it comes this way, and we’re dead? What then?” Wilbur is asking, Quackity’s jaw set and eyes burning with angry determination as he stares up at Wilbur,

  
“It won’t if I’m there to fight in the first place,” he replies as levelly as he can, “We’re going to stand a better chance of stopping it if we’re all there.”

  
“And if we don’t stop it? It’s not going to be _fighting_ it here, not to win. It’s going to be evacuating.”

  
“That’s not what _I’m_ good at, it’s what _Tommy’s_ good at,” Quackity takes a half-step forward, wings shoring up like walls around him, “You know what I’m good at, Wilbur?” 

Wilbur grits his teeth and replies,  
“ _Dying._ ”

Ranboo flickers in between them before Quackity’s thrown punch can make contact, and it does have the desired effect of sending shock through the shorter man’s expression, followed in rapid succession by anger and guilt. Ranboo takes the shove of Quackity’s arm, stumbling back into Wilbur’s chest with the lack of balance. Wilbur puts a hand on his shoulder to steady him, and Ranboo keeps his breath held. 

“Really, not the time for it,” he manages after a moment of recollecting himself, and Wilbur’s fingers flex against his shoulder in representation of his annoyance. 

There’s a tense moment where Ranboo isn’t sure it’ll work. It’s just words, and when has anyone ever listened to words? They never seem to listen, always pulling up against one another and arguing, choosing sides, always-

Quackity takes a breath and steps back.

“I’ll stay if you think I should,” it’s not directed at Wilbur, it’s directed at Ranboo, and at Tubbo, as he turns his head to squint at the bard. Ranboo glances over at Tubbo, nervous and searching for a direction.  
  


“It’s up to you, minute man,” Tubbo inclines his head, “I trust you.”

_He shouldn’t._

“He should come,” Ranboo says, turning to look at Wilbur, “He’s right. We stand a better chance if we fight together. Fundy has evacuation under control, right?” and he looks to Fundy, who’s nodding in agreement.  
  


“I’ve got it, Will,” he assures, “We’re already scouting the tunnels.”

Wilbur sighs,  
“It’s not- I’m not saying you’ll die just to scare you, big Q,” he says, but his tone is relenting, “I’m saying it ‘cause I saw it. Multiple times.”

  
“I’m not afraid of dying,” Quackity replies, but his wings pull tighter around him, betraying the lie, “I don’t want to, but I’m not afraid.”

  
Phil steps in,   
“Every second you’re arguing about it is another second the Badlands are threatened. Grow up, get it together- are you ready to leave, Quackity?”

It’s jarring how stern his voice is, jarring how he refers to Quackity- cracking out the full name? No big Q?

“I’m ready,” Quackity tugs the collar of his hoodie down to reveal the straps of his ring mail underneath, the sound obvious now he’s showed it off. Phil nods.

  
“Alright, say your goodbyes and let’s move out.”

Niki steps back in to give Ranboo one last hug, fingers wrapping into the fabric of Wilbur’s coat at his back.

“Stay alive,” she says, though it sounds more like begging. Ranboo smiles despite the fear.

  
“I’ll try.”

Wilbur is off to the side bidding Fundy an equally heartfelt, if slightly more awkward, farewell. Quackity’s wings slump, and Ranboo steps up to his side, studying the small crowd that’s gathered- past Niki and Fundy, there’s also Eret, Jack, and Purpled hovering on the outer edges, talking more between themselves than anything, though Eret does flash Ranboo a reassuring smile when he glances their way.

There is, however, a very distinct lack of Karl.

“I left him in bed,” Quackity says quietly as Ranboo bumps against his shoulder in silent solidarity, “I didn’t want to wake him up, but not getting to say goodbye…”

  
“You’re not going to die,” Ranboo lies through his teeth, “You’re going to be okay.”

Quackity laughs, an oddly broken noise to come from him, clamping a hand down atop his beanie and clenching, just for something to hold,

“Come on, Wilbur saw it. I’m probably going to die.”

There’s a lull, as Fundy awkwardly bundles Wilbur into a hug, and Ranboo struggles with the concept of choices.

“Hey,” he says, watching Wilbur trail back a step, “Grab my hand.”

  
“What?” Quackity says as Ranboo offers his hand out, palm-up. He doesn’t get an answer in the brief second before he takes hold, and Ranboo turns to Phil over his shoulder.

  
“Be right back.”

And he and Quackity both burst into purple mist and glitter and dart off around the stilts of the walkways toward Quackity and Karl’s house. They don’t pause even for the door, Ranboo simply slips them through the cracks, around the draught excluder, and up the stairs.

He only stops when he’s outside the door to their bedroom, opened just a crack. He rebuilds the both of them, though Quackity stumbles somewhat with the motion shock, and looks quite nauseated by the experience. Ranboo takes a few steps back.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, and Quackity gives him a look that he can’t decode. Something with anguish and gratitude and sorrow, topped off with lashings of motion sickness, and a thousand other things he can’t put a name to.

Quackity pushes open the door to his bedroom and it creaks faintly, giving Ranboo his signal to trudge down the stairs and sit by the door like a waiting dog. He can hear the muffled sound of speech from upstairs, accompanied by half-sobs and bedsprings creaking under shifting movement, then footsteps. 

It must take barely a minute, but Quackity appears at the top of the stairs, scrubbing tears from his cheeks.

“Thanks, Ranboo.” He says quietly, and Ranboo says nothing in reply. He offers his hand out, and Quackity comes down to take it, bursting them both back into mist so they can return to the square.

They coalesce into their forms and Ranboo lets go of Quackity’s hand so that he can quickly swipe the tears away. The backup group circles around the two of them, and Ranboo checks over them quickly, ensuring they all have a firm grim on one another,

“This _is_ going to be uncomfortable,” he warns, and Phil rolls his eyes over a slight smile,

  
“Then let’s get it over with, yeah?”

  
“Yeah,” Ranboo agrees, setting a hand on Phil’s shoulder firmly and dissolving the whole group into glitter and mist that goes careening off toward the forest and the Badlands, trailing well-wishes from the remaining citizens of L’Manberg behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look i lvoe ranboo i love ranboo so much i would kill and die for ranboo.
> 
> anyway as usual, if you enjoy m writing, please leave a comment! even something as simple as a "<3" really helps my motivation to keep writing! <3


	8. The Encounter - Echelon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The army arrives at the Badlands to lay first eyes on their enemy, but it may be completely other than what they expected...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Thirty Seconds To Mars' song of the same name ("Echelon")!
> 
> This chapter has accompanying art at the very end, so warnings for general eldritch horror that strays fairly close to/into body horror!

Breath catches in tightened throats, Dream solidifies himself outside the door to his home and enters to find George tightening the buckles on Sapnap’s full plate armor, already dressed up in his own.

And yes, Dream hates how his chest flutters at the sight, because George in full plate should be terrifying. It’s unwieldy and heavy, and though he prefers it in a serious fight, he’s so rarely in a serious fight. For George, the clank of the plate is a death toll, a bell above a graveyard just as it’s always been.

It still bears the royal emblem, scratched out and covered but visible if you know what you’re looking for. 

He looks up as Dream enters, finishes the buckle on Sapnap’s shoulder and turns directly into the hug that Dream tries to offer, but more silently begs for.

“Hey,” says George, tucked against Dream’s shoulder, “How are you?”  
  


“I hurt.” Dream replies, and laughs a little, “I can’t believe I hurt.”

George doesn’t say it’s okay. He doesn’t offer the sugar-coated placations that they all automatically want to, but he does turn with one arm still looped around Dream and offers the other out to Bad and Sapnap.

Bad is the first to hop into the hug, but Sapnap isn’t exactly far behind. The four of them group in the doorway pulled in tight, fingers clenched in fabric and tears unshed.

They take hold of this moment and grasp it, this memory of what to fight for. Then they step back from one another. George returns to Sapnap’s buckles, Dream heads through to his room to suit up in his own armor, and Bad sits atop the fireplace slowly chewing through strips of jerky.

Dream returns, armored up, to George and Sapnap’s grimaces.   
Much like George in full plate, the armor that Dream wears now is a symbol of true conflict. They popularly refer to it as his _war_ armor, a hauberk-like coat that buckles all down the left side. It’s his favoured armor for serious fights, made of tiny, overlapping scales of some kind of hardened ceramic, yet still light enough for him to move quickly in. It’s also far quieter than the metal armor his friends favor.

He’s doing the buckles on his leather gloves when he steps in the door, though the burns from Bad’s bestial form are making him somewhat clumsy. Bad himself is the one to come to his side and do them up for him, wordless and soundless but for quiet hums to test when something is too tight.

“Ranboo will be back any minute,” George says, glancing out of the window, “Do you have everything?”

Dream’s fingers ghost over the handle of his axe,

“I think so. Wait- Bad, you’re not wearing armor.”  
  


“I don’t really need it,” Bad lifts a hand in display, showing off the faint flickering and the claws, but Dream shakes his head regardless,  
  


“You need something, just in case. George’s coat would be enough.”

Bad makes a noise in the back of his throat, somewhere between reluctance and annoyance, but he does pull the coat on when it’s offered to him. He carefully tucks it under his capelet, and none of them miss the way his fingers pause over the cool metal of Skeppy’s emblem that he has sewn to the left breast, roughly where it would lay over his heart. 

  
  


There’s scattered noise from outside, no less than two of which are the distinct sound of somebody being violently sick into the nearest bush, and Dream grimaces,

  
  


“Ranboo’s here,” He says, though it’s mostly redundant. By this point, they’ve all experienced the motion sickness that comes from Ranboo’s teleportation. Not all of them cope as well as the others, Techno included, even though he’s been through the process more than a few times.

Dream and the others head out to the front to meet up with Ranboo, who, at this point, looks about ready to pass out. Dream steps up to him, straightening the collar of his cloak, inspecting him. Black has spidered out across the sclera of his right eye, and like Dream, he now has black oozing down his cheek like tears.  
  
  


“Are you going to be okay to teleport everyone?” Dream asks, “I can go myself, I’ll stay with you, but…” he glances at the group, where Sapnap and Tommy hare having a tense, brief catchup, and George is rubbing Quackity’s back soothingly as he’s violently sick into the bushes.

“It’s a lot of people,” Ranboo agrees, “And it’s hard to remember how they’re built. But it’s okay, I’ll manage- as long as we protect the people, right?”

There’s a quiet between them as Dream studies Ranboo. He’s so much younger and more naive than Dream is, though how much of that is due to his amnesia is… questionable. But he’s braver, too. Does that come from the naivete? Does it matter if it does?

Is bravery a trait to be looked down on?   
What is the difference between brave and reckless- is it to fight for a cause?  
Is it okay to be reckless when lives are on the line, or do they call that bravery in retrospect?  
Is it brave or reckless to sacrifice yourself not even in the fight, but to fight, to give that moment of surprise in the attack?

Dream is too old to still have all of these questions about the universe, but he’s never found any answers.

“As long as we protect people.”

It’s the only answer he can give. He fiddles with the buckles of the right glove, giving an annoyed noise when his fingers won’t work right enough to do it quickly, and he offers the arm out to Ranboo without needing to ask for help. Ranboo does it anyway, nimble as he tugs the buckles loose and allows Dream to peel his hand out of the glove and hold it out, burned bare skin visible in the moonlight. Ranboo sighs as he sets his own right hand in Dream’s.

“I always hate how much this hurts.” He manages before electric surges through his whole body, and everything seizes up in the shock. A choked-off groan catches in his throat with a faint _“Huan-gh!”_ but it’s familiar. Through the agony in his own gritted teeth, Dream watches the black recede from Ranboo’s sclera and sees the purple mist coalesce in his own vision, but he can take it so much better than the younger can. It will always hurt both of them to have that darkness seeped away and taken within Dream, but he does it anyway, because Ranboo is the hero. Not him. He’s never been the hero.

He releases and shifts to catch Ranboo before his body can hit the floor, muttering quiet apologies as the poor bastard heaves to catch his breath. Behind Ranboo, Phil’s eyes burn into Dream in warning, though he notices only on his peripheral.

“I’m sorry,” Dream says quietly, as Ranboo, shaking, finds the strength to stand by himself again. Ranboo shakes his head.

  
“For other people,” He says, though his breath catches over and over and over on the pain, “It’s okay.”  
  


“No, it’s not okay,” Dream corrects, “It’s necessary.” 

  
“Right,” Ranboo says, though it’s debatable whether he agrees, “Let’s- yeah, we should go.”

They move around the group, ensuring that everyone has a good grip on one another. Quackity is pulled in against Sapnap’s side, and Dream spares a half-moment to give his old friend a glance of mixed pride and regret, which he finds responded to in similar kind.

“Ready?” Dream means it as a group question, but it’s George he has his eyes on. He receives murmurs around him, though George remains silent, meeting his gaze through the mask.

It’s a moment of possibility, a thousand options and timelines exploding outward.

At the other side of the circle, Wilbur cripples under the weight of it, held up only by Phil on his left, and Tommy on his right.  
Ranboo’s hand settles in Tubbo’s, and George, as the rest of them, dissolves into purple mist and glitter in front of Dream’s eyes. They shoot off, and Dream follows momentarily, a streak of lime lightning through the trees and intertwined with the hurricane of eldritch lavender in the undergrowth toward the Badlands.

  
  
  
  
  


“Ant!”

Sam crashes to his knees beside his friend and fellow soldier, hands already going to tear strips from his cloak as bandages. Ant grits his teeth, functional hand pressing over the piercing wound through his lower torso, shaking his head,

“It’s okay, I’ll get it, don’t stop fighting.”

  
“They’re coming,” Sam assures, though it’s really more for himself as he stands up, “They’re on their way.”

Ant gives a wordless noise in reply, too preoccupied with pressing fabric against the wound to slow the bleeding, but his vision is already swimming. He’ll think himself lucky if he has minutes left to live, but he has to pretend, just a little, to get Sam back out on the field where he stands a better chance at living.

Sam shifts and shakes out his arm so that his shield springs to full expansion from his armor, drawing up with his spear clasped tight in the other hand. He steps off back into the ruined farmland, and Ant heaves a pained sigh at his shrinking silhouette, closing his eyes. Is it worth fighting an inevitable end?

He still keeps his hand planted hard against the wound, but with all the blood loss, he can feel his consciousness slipping out of his grip.

Then there’s a hand over his own and he opens his eyes sleepily to find Phil crouched in front of him, wings spread to block a spray of dust from the landing party and Dream crashing into the earth. 

  
  


“Hey,” Phil says, green already glowing around his fingertips, “How bad is it?”

  
“Bad,” Says Ant hoarsely, already halfway to unconsciousness and with tears in his eyes, “I don’t want to die, Phil.”

  
“You won’t.” Phil promises, and, over his shoulder, “Ranboo!”

Ant grunts at a sudden sear of pain in his wound, but dully recognises that yes, that’s Phil either cauterizing or suspending the wound so that he has time to heal him.  
Ranboo appears at the edge of Ant’s fading vision, looking thoroughly exhausted, and he glances down at Ant,

“Oh.” He says absently.  
  


“Yeah,” Phil replies, “I’m- I need to fix this right now.”  
  


“We really should have brought Niki,” Ranboo kneels beside Ant and puts a hand on his shoulder, bursting them all into purple mist and rushing away from the battleground into the forest’s edge to give Phil the space to stop Ant bleeding out.

Back within the torn-down walls of the Badlands, the forces fan out. They can see the shadow shape against the flames, but they’re too far to make out details, wanting some kind of distance that they could put between them to strategise. Dream throws out commands like a seasoned captain, and if it had been any other situation, it’s likely half the present force wouldn’t have listened to him. But they do in this moment, fanning out to either side in almost squadrons. Quackity takes to the air, glancing behind him at Sapnap, who mimics the look over to Dream.

“If there’s ever a time for them,” He says, and it’s a kind of permission. Sapnap gives a smile that looks more like a grimace and stretches out, allowing the spring-coil of magic he keeps so deep within himself to explode free in the form of a pair of glowing spectral wings that almost match Quackity’s in aesthetic. Sleek and tapered, they flutter once, twice before beating hard and Sapnap follows Quackity into the sky. Dream almost breathes in awe, the same way he always does when Sapnap summons his wings- they’re beautiful, angelic, and terrifying all at once. What the armor is for himself and George, the wings are for Sapnap. The sound of his wingbeats is the sound of the graveyard rushing up to meet him.

“Wilbur, out to the left,” Dream points, “Techno, with him. Tommy, Tubbo, go right.”

They nod and peal off in their directions, leaving George and Dream central and charging up across burnt grass. The same burnt grass that merely weeks ago they’d laid out on, pointing out shapes in the sky. George points out on the horizon,

“Puffy!” He exclaims to Dream, who follows his direction to spot the aforementioned stood over Sam with shield raised against a thrusting attack from the shadowy creature.

It’s the best look they’ve had at it so far, and it’s terrifying in just that brief glance.

It could resemble a person, if a person had been stretched out to almost twenty feet in height, dislocating and reassembling every bone in their body.   
It’s not muscled heavily like a Wolf, but almost wizened, skin stretched out so thin over should-be-bone that it looks in places like it’s pierced through. The hands are too-long, fingertips hovering around mid-shin and ever-shifting- it seems as though it switches between number of fingers, but always with consistent bladed fingernails, or claws, straight like a longsword and thick like a zweihander.   
The most disconcerting aspects- that they can see right now, anyway- is the space that should be a head. It’s more now a mound of flesh that looks as though it’s melting upward, dripping and dissipating into the sky. They can see a mouth splitting around its side, with teeth like the Wolf but so much larger, longer, almost like a semi-diagonal gash.

It turns upon Puffy, bearing down with the muscle below its skin shifting and bulging, forcing the rows of eyes around the mouth to almost pop out, shadowed by its three sets of mismatched wings. All eight of its eyes bulge and turn, focusing in on Puffy and becoming visible in the glowing light from the runes on her sword.

Dream stumbles over the grass.

Eight eyes, all identical. Green, with spidery, darkened sclera, leaking a viscous black liquid like tears and scattering purple glowing dust from their edges. The pupils are slitted, the striations around pulsing and tensing as they narrow their focus onto the tiny creature before them.

Puffy raises her shield. The wings behind the creature spread- one set insect-like, almost like a hornet, and another set leathery and demonic. The third set hovers unattached to the body, a dark mirror of Sapnap’s own wings.

The sound of ticking fills the air. An unseen clock, a death toll, emanating from the monster’s bones. It unspirals, the mouth splitting not just around the headless lump but the entire body like a coil, it stretches out impossibly and lunges down toward Puffy with lime green acidic saliva sizzling from the rows and rows and rows of leech-like teeth onto the grass.

Dream bursts into lightning, crashing across the field and solidifying into Puffy’s side as the monster bears down upon her. She goes sprawling, and him with her, though the slinky-like strike misses and the creature gets only a mouthful of ruined farmland. 

“Dream?” Puffy half-calls over the rumbling roar of the creature as it straightens and turns its attention their way once more. This close, looking up, Dream can see the lick of flame where a heart should be, encircled by a series of runes that dangerously resemble George’s ritual lines, the northmark set where a collarbone would be on a person. 

Dream looks over to her, and so does the creature. The shift sends a wave through the curtain of terrifyingly human-like hair, matted and long down its back between the wings. 

It screams, sending pulses of lime-green light along the keratin of a double set of curled ram’s horns.

Just like Puffy’s own.

Dream is at Puffy’s side and pulling her up, wanting to apologise but unable to speak, his mind under assault from the scream and the acid and the darkness and the _tick-tick-tick-tick-tick_

  
  
  


It’s him.

  
  


This horrific monster, a stretched out abomination of every person he loves.

  
  


It’s _him._

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter chapter because that ending point was necessary, but I'll be back on my bullshit next time!
> 
> As usual, I love to hear any comments you have, even something as simple as "<3" really helps let me know that you enjoy my writing, and motivates me to continue!


	9. The Battle - Safe and Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Phil heals Ant, the battle begins...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Taylor Swift + The Civil Wars' song of the [same name ("Safe and Sound")](https://open.spotify.com/track/4yTqjWF2EoFJM5BbSCe4YW)
> 
> I'm.... sorry.

“Hey, Ant,” Phil is laying him out on the grass as he speaks, the warm night making it dewy and earthy, the air thick with the scent. Ant groans, the only answer he can formulate. Phil grimaces, fingers at the buckles of the punched-through armor,

“Stay awake, yeah, mate? Why don’t you tell me- tell me why you don’t wanna die?”

The words are bitter burning at the back of his throat but he pushes them over his tongue despite the acrid taste they leave behind. It’s a horrible thing to have to say, but he needs Ant to remember why he’s fighting that blackness, why he’s turning away from the grave he’s falling into.

Ant tries a couple of times to make words, and whilst Phil waits, he glances over his shoulder.

Ranboo is stood ten or so feet back, swaying slowly in place and eyes unfocused, fingers clenching and unclenching at his side.

  
He wants to care right now. Ranboo- he means a lot. Phil has been told he has a penchant for taking in waifs and strays, and maybe it’s true when he thinks it over- from Wilbur and Tommy as tiny children after the disappearance of their mother, from Tubbo at the roadside scuffed and broken and clearly thrown aside like an unwanted dog. Even Techno, though fully able to fight for himself, he’d been so lonely and almost feral before Phil had walked into his life and sat down and asked him to talk about everything he’s seen.

He wants to take Ranboo in, in this moment, just as he would any of the others. He’s obviously tired, scared, maybe even in shock and barely seconds from a physical or mental breakdown but he has other things- a life- literally sat in his hands and demanding his attention. Still, Ranboo looks so lonely stood there.

“Ranboo,” He says over his shoulder, “C’mere?”

“What do you need?” Ranboo jerks over into Phil’s sight, to the left somewhat, and Phil shakes his head,

“Just sit. Take a breath.”

“What if they need me on the field?” Ranboo asks, and his fingers curl and uncurl and curl and uncurl.

“I’ll need you to take me back- sorry, I can’t- just sit, _please?_ ” Phil’s voice cracks over at the end, and Ranboo plonks himself directly into the grass.

  
  


Ant’s armor comes off and he whimpers as the rended edges pull at the wound. It’s fairly clean, as wounds go, but punched all the way through. A clean strike seeping blood even after the pressure applied and the anchoring points of stasis along the edge that Phil had managed to dig into in the moment before teleporting. If it weren’t for that, honestly, he’d probably have lost Ant already.

  
  


“Sorry, Ant. Tell me, then- why don’t you wanna die? What’re you living for? I wanna hear it.”

  
  


Ant’s voice gurgles in his throat for a moment, but he manages to find words eventually,

  
  


“I didn’t say goodbye to Velvet and Floof this morning,” it sounds like it takes so much effort to say, “When I left for work, I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t know- I have to say goodbye.”

  
  


He’s crying, and Phil makes a noise in the back of his throat somewhere between plaintive and soothing. He’s rooting around in his bag, pulling out the sprig of mistletoe and wristbands of holly that he winces as he pulls on, drawing thin lines that spot with blood in places down his hands. He doesn’t draw out the ritual the way George does, though it’s argued their magic sources itself the same way- it’s _different,_ being a hedge witch against a full-blown druid. 

There’s no northmark in his mind as he covers the ancient, unreadable symbols he knows he needs to fix this, the constellations of stars he calls upon like needles to suture skin together.   
Green blooms from the bones of his wings and he reaches back, plucking a feather with a wince and bringing it in front of his face, lashing it to the mistletoe sprig with the thread-fine silver wire and criss-crossing it, then splitting it down the centre with a last wrap, pulling the centre tight with the outer layers splayed like the wings of a butterfly.

How good does the spell need to be?

His eyes glance over to the half-open patch of gems, knowing that in the little leather pouch with silver swirls lays a small smattering of diamonds, things used for resurrection and to return bodies to previous states. But Phil doesn’t need the diamonds for that. Still, he withdraws a piece of rose quartz, a tiny chip that he wriggles into the centrepiece of the silver and breathes as he straightens and takes a step back.

He raises the material component in his left hand and draws his sword with the right. It’s a chipped silver blade with mithral inlay, as old as Wilbur is and referred to in the history books as the Guillotine of Calamity.

So much blood has been spilled with the blade, so many lives lost, so many last breaths escaping through blood-filled mouths with the sword buried in the chest. Every time his fingers meet the worn leather hilt wrap, he feels in that intake of breath; the echo of every breath ever before, sees in that brief second the eyes of everyone he’s ever killed.

The Guillotine of Calamity hasn’t claimed a life in many years. The graveyard outside L’Manberg is the skeleton heart of its last stand.

Now it has a new purpose.

“Hold this, Ant,” Says Phil, bending to set the mistletoe to Ant’s chest. Cold fingers twitch and lift to lay over it, Ant’s numb fingertips running over the rose quartz to Phil’s wince.  
“Think about Velvet.” He instructs, and Ant, eyes closed, breathing shallow, nods against the grass.

Phil takes a breath and lifts the sword, pushing into his magic the same way one would leap into a deep pool of water or the endless ocean. Around him, the cold burns, salt on his skin and in his mouth, searing along the faint wounds from the holly digging into his wrists. 

Wilbur’s vision manifests differently to his own, but it’s obvious inheritance. When he blinks, he sees a hundred thousand images overlaid all over one another, sending his mind into a haze as he tries to pick out details with everything happening at once and again and again. He sees a thousand timelines they missed where Ant is dead here, where they’re laying his body out safe to bury later. A thousand timelines where the space is empty, devoid of life, not one of them there.

He sees variations on variations, Ranboo to the side scattered with blood or radiating purple light or Sam or Ponk or Punz in this spot, instead. He has less than a second here, this process plays over again as he searches for the timeline where they’re here, everything is okay, where Ant’s wound is closed or gone or he’s stable, any improvement. He finds it, eventually, George off to the side in the spectral image with glasses pushed up on his head and the northmark of his runes burned into Ant’s shirt.

Phil looks at this, picks his angle, and swings the sword in one quick, clean cut, shattering the image along the slice line and sending the scrap of George and the burn marks back to its home as he plants the Guillotine of Calamity into the ground, tip-first, driving the image of the timeline he’s holding into his own. He sees it overlay and blur, magnets repelling one another and he pushes harder with the constellations of sutures in the green light of his magic.

It spreads like thin cotton, spiralling along Ant’s outline and sewing the ghostly image into him as the mistletoe and feather burn in green light, bursting into flowers and leaves that scatter across Ant’s chest. 

The northmark of George’s ritual, pulled from the overlaid timeline, sews itself in with stars across the wound and finally the slice takes, the image overlay settles and the wound disappears as though weeks old. Ant’s breath immediately comes less laboured, and his hands fall to the side as he hurtles straight into a healing unconsciousness. 

Phil sighs as he straightens back up, pulling the sword out of the earth and re-sheathing it. He glances to Ranboo, who is watching him with wide eyes,

“Hey, you doin’ okay?” Phil offers out a hand that Ranboo takes to pull himself up, nodding,

“I’m going to sleep for a week after this,” Ranboo laughs lightly over the words, but he sounds so incredibly tired. Phil tugs at his hand until he steps in to a brief hug, wings coming around to encircle the both of them. For a moment, they’re a barrier between the world and the exhaustion, and Ranboo gives himself that split second to exhale and close his eyes against Phil’s upper arm, walled off from the conflict and the fear. He can feel Phil rubbing small, soothing circles against his back, and it does feel as though he’s a child now, comforted by his guardian. 

And if he wonders if this was a part of his childhood that he doesn’t remember, he crushes the idea down. There’s a time and a place to be afraid of the things he’s lost in his head, but he refuses to let that time be now.

“You ready to go back?” Phil’s voice brings a soft rumble, and Ranboo sighs, but nods,

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

“You wanna let go or not?”

  
  


A pause. The two choices present themselves like pictures in Ranboo’s mind, like two sides, like black and white. Is it selfish to say no? Is it selfish to want every second of safety he can claw up? He’s seen this all happen before and again, right? Isn’t he allowed just this moment, this brief not-even-second of feeling like something bigger than him is keeping him safe?

  
  


“Not really,” He says, and Phil gives a breath of a laugh,

“Can you teleport like this?” The wings tighten their circle, and Ranboo doesn’t use his words to reply this time. He holds tight to the memory of how they’re built, and the two of them dissolve into dust, leaving Ant propped up against the tree trunk far from the conflict and, hopefully, safe for now.

  
  
  
  


On the battlefield, Dream has frozen. Puffy’s hand is at his wrist from where he’d pulled her upright, and she pulls and swings him, now, as a series of bladed fingers jab out at him.

  
  


“Dream!” It’s almost a bark, she shifts to use her own sword to parry them away, the shield abandoned on the ground. Again, all eight eyes of the horrific abomination narrow in on her, and that’s enough to shake Dream out of his horror. He ducks and picks her shield from the floor, lifting it in just the split-second he needs to crash away a spear-like thrust, stepping ahead of her,

  
  


“We need to move Sam,” He says to Puffy as he hands her shield over and draws his axe with the other hand, though it’s at this moment that Quackity dive-bombs from the sky, pickaxe drawn back and swinging hard for one of the eyes. The monster doesn’t see him for a split-second too long, and by the time it does, Quackity’s pickaxe is six inches deep in its iris.

Sapnap swoops in behind him, collaring him and pulling him back in just the right amount of space for the wide swipe to miss vital organs, carving down his chest and thigh instead. Quackity makes a pained noise, but is safe enough, pulled back by Sapnap’s nimble fingers and away from death. The pickaxe squelches as it comes free. Black blood splatters in an arc across the grass, sizzling as it makes contact.

Sapnap sweeps Quackity behind him, wing beating slow and heavy as he raises his longsword. One hand lingers against Quackity’s wrist, and below, Wilbur cripples under the thousands of possibilities in the moment.

Quackity’s hand slips through Sapnap’s grip and for a moment his grip on the longsword falters, more afraid of his mistakes than the horror below. He looks over his shoulder at Quackity and finds his eyes also are off of the monster and on Sapnap’s skin, bared between the leather and metal of his gauntlets. He threads his fingers through Sapnap’s own.

  
  


Techno pulls Wilbur up by the scruff, dragging him along as he runs, the cape fluttering behind him. It takes a second for Wilbur to find his footing, but he does eventually, running alongside Techno in a loop out to the left.   
Wilbur’s fingers tremble over the kalimba, but he finds his way to pick out the right notes, voice boiling in his throat and burning with magic, words in a language he’s never understood and never will. Chains of earth spiral up from the ground, chunks lifting out as though they’ve been there all along. They wind around the creature’s legs and climb higher with every note from Wilbur’s kalimba, and he spots Tubbo out on the other side taking a stance and a breath.   
  


A second kalimba joins Wilbur’s, echoing in the air unnaturally, Tubbo’s breath echoing around the battlefield. A series of runes glow in the air, drawn out by the music and the light seeping from Tubbo’s eyes. His tune is faster, jauntier, and somehow more _haunting_ than Wilbur’s, no voice to carve away the parts he doesn’t intend, everything is done in the notes he plays. The runes circle and pulse with energy, spinning faster, electric crackles and darts across as it charges and releases in a blast of light and heat, sending the spiritual construct careening out toward the monster.

With it distracted by the giant, spectral creature of hollow armor above them, Dream and Puffy rush across the field to scoop Sam up. He seems relatively uninjured, mostly knocked unconscious by sudden force. His shield is still expanded against him, and Puffy slips a hand down his gauntlet to trigger the mechanism to collapse it back into the plates.

  
  


“You’re faster than me,” She looks to Dream, who grimaces,

“Not whilst carrying him.”

“Weakling,” she jokes, but pulls Sam up across her shoulders anyway. She pauses for a moment, glancing at Dream, and then up at the monster, being harried by Tubbo’s summon and held down by Wilbur’s chains. He follows her gaze.

“I’ll worry about it later,” He preempts the questions she’s thinking of, and though he’s not exactly spot on, he isn’t far off. She nods anyway.

“Don’t die, duckling,” Puffy says, and takes off across the field, Sam’s free arm bouncing against her back with every step.

In her place comes George, drawing out the lines in sulphur paste against his own body, spiralling wherever there’s space. Across his armor, his neck, his face, all covered in runes in a terrible-smelling paste that is definitely carcinogenic. He looks to Dream and offers a hand out,

  
  


“Help me?”

“Always,” Dream says despite the pulsing of darkness in his vision. He sets his hand in Georges and allows himself to be a conduit, relieving himself of humanity as George pulls from the wellspring of magic directly. 

  
  


In the moment, the two of them are bound more deeply than any secret ever could, intertwining their souls so wholly it’s impossible to pick them apart. The runes on George’s body don’t just glow, they _seethe,_ boiling like lava and radiating light and heat that he doesn’t feel, pulled from his body into the river of the universe. Above the monster, rune-lined rips in reality tear open, pop-pop-popping into existence. And from within those rains down meteors, thick and scorching and homing in on the abomination, but catching the fliers in their wake. Quackity manages to drag Sapnap back, out of the range of the meteors, catching only the edge of one wing clipped in the escape. Sapnap bites his tongue on the pain.

Crashes of rock and burning flame, liquid metal from within scattering across flesh and cracking against bone- a contest which, by all accounts, the bone should lose. But like striking solid tungsten, it barely leaves scratches, and that which it does leave behind slowly bubbles and closes over. Still, the blunt force seems to at least shake the creature, and it begins tearing at itself where the boiling metal sizzles into skin.

George releases Dream’s hand, coughing as he doubles over, blood spattering across the grass. Burning magic catches still in his throat as it dissipates, and Dream ducks to lift him from the earth and dart back somewhere around fifty feet, putting some kind of space between them and the conflict above. George’s breath wheezes in his chest, and he turns to press his face into Dream’s shoulder as though it’ll ease the pain. It doesn’t, but somehow, it makes it easier to deal with.

  
  


“Good job,” Dream murmurs as he sets George down, guilt welling in him when fingers scrabble at the scales of his armor and the cloak scarfed around him. George’s eyes are wide behind his glasses, on him, terrified. Dream does set him down, but pauses to set his hand gently to George’s cheek, heart aching when he leans into it. He’s never in his right mind after such a big spell, Dream reminds himself.

“Don’t go,” George croaks, and Dream brushes his thumb back and forth over his friend’s cheekbone,

“I’m sorry.”

  
  


He pulls away and turns back to the fight, where Tubbo’s spectral guardian appears to be falling apart. Another massive swipe from a seven-clawed hand sweeps through the armor and sends it cascading, dissipating at it hits the ground. Tubbo’s half-scream of dismay echoes in the air. 

Sapnap swoops in behind the Abomination, as they’ve all mentally deigned to title it now. His sword finds purchase through the matted mess of hair into the back between the wings, but only for a moment as a heavy flap batters him from both sides and he goes tumbling down toward the ground, dazed from the sudden shaking and loose, unable to catch his own consciousness before the ground hurtles toward him- and this is where the difference in Quackity and Phil’s wings becomes truly obvious, as Quackity turns into a steep dive, wings pulled tight around him to slick his shape down into almost a tiny torpedo. He rockets through the air, crashing into Sapnap barely a foot from the earth and tumbling with the broken momentum, rolling across the floor and bruised, but significantly better than Sapnap would be were it not for the arms wrapped around his shoulders. His sword lays abandoned along with the pickaxe, dropped during the fall ten feet away.

Wilbur sees the attention of the creature turn to the birds sprawled out on the floor now that its big, glowy punching bag has dissipated, and he takes a second to panic, words of his song coming out in a half jumble as he wrenches the pitch to one side, falling lower and yanking the earthen chains with it, throwing off the Abomination’s focus for a moment as it has to right its balance.   
  


Techno takes Wilbur’s opportunity, darting in opposite to Tommy, who follows his lead.

They don’t always get along, admittedly, but there’s no argument that Techno and Tommy are a formidable team with the ability to read one another’s movements silently and quickly. It’s evident especially now, as Techno plants a foot on the connection of one earthen chain, and Tommy leaps like some kind of little monkey to scramble up the other, and when they reach the point where the chains meet, Techno holds an arm out to Tommy just out of range of the dripping acidic saliva. He doesn’t need to express in words what he wants, Tommy just grasps his wrist and allows himself to fall, trusting Techno’s grip on him.   
As expected, the grip goes taught and rough but he’s caught, and swung, Techno’s breath coming heavy as he pushes into the magic within him to pulse along his muscles and _swing,_ sending Tommy soaring upward, cackling madly as he descends atop the Abomination, sword plunged down with his whole body weight around it. At the last moment, light pulses through the mithral runes of Tommy’s sword, a replication of the Guillotine of Calamity, and there’s the sound of sizzling and burning as it cuts through flesh and muscle like butter, finding no bone in the mount of melting skin that should be a head. The Abomination screams, lashing up toward Tommy, and Techno takes that moment to spring up himself and embed his war pick in the shoulder joint of the left arm, clearly hitting some kind of nerve system that makes it fall limp. The right is still functional enough to stab at Tommy, though, and his wild cackles fade into a gasp and a shout of pain as he’s slashed through the thigh and hip where his half plate doesn’t protect him.

“Tommy!” Tubbo’s shout is almost a scream, the kalimba in his hands vibrating with the speed of his playing, “Jump!”

Like Techno, Tommy trusts Tubbo implicitly. He draws his sword out from within the creature and gives a brief, pained grin at the wound that seems to stick where others haven’t. The hand comes back toward him, and he pushes off with his good leg, dropping from the flesh mound and allowing himself to plummet toward the earth. He trusts Tubbo.

A spiralling series of runes erupt under him, a net of threads of light that he falls into as they coalesce into a form of a giant bee, furred and soft under his body. He takes a handful of the spectral fluff to steady himself atop his new steed, and Tubbo’s tune switches, lighter and airier and more calming despite its pace.   
Like honey and salve, the notes sink into Tommy’s skin, and he feels the wounds just opened close over again, skin knitting back together. He’ll thank Tubbo later- right now, he’s preoccupied nudging the bee to turn, darting under the Abomination’s arm so that Techno can push off, freeing his pick from its shoulder and dropping down to land behind Tommy atop the bee.

The skin broken at the shoulder begins to reform, closing over as nerves heal, and the bee does a large turn taking the fighters out of melee range for a moment. Long enough for Puffy to back out of range, too, crossing over behind Wilbur. Niki would never forgive her if she let anything happen to him. They’re such old friends, near-inseparable if in different ways to everyone else.

Dream comes back up the hill as the Abomination finally tears free of Wilbur’s chains, sending earth and dust cascading back down. It turns its attention to him, to Dream, tiny on the floor but staring up through the mask and the thunder rumbles over and over in his head by the ticking. He can’t catch his breath, he’s afraid, more afraid than he’s ever been.

“You’re me,” He says, and all eyes pulse and turn to him. Seven total, now, the eighth ruined by Quackity and still unhealed. That mouth stretches out, twisting, its whole body moves to resemble almost a smile, just like the one on his mask. There’s purple dust in his vision and ice in his veins as he pulls the axe up,  
“I’ll never be you,” he says, as firmly as he can. That smile only widens.

When it speaks, it isn’t a voice so much as it is nails on a chalkboard, stretched and warped to resemble words, thunder underlaid below them,

_“Say goodbye to George before you go,”_ It wheezes, and Dream freezes. He remembers those words. He remembers that day. It wasn’t so long ago, Sapnap at his side in the dim light of his room, and in a one-armed hug with Dream’s chin atop his head. The Abomination takes a step toward him, and he vaguely registers Puffy screaming at him to move.

“No, I can change this,” Dream says, quieter now, though he hears his own nerves in his voice. His eyes dart across, looking for the weak points before realising they won’t be visible. But it’s _him._ He knows his weak points. His ribs, his wrists, his neck… his heart.

_“Who’ll die first?”_ It’s a question, rumbling along the ground and through Dream’s chest where his breath catches. The ribs are the easiest point to go for, he thinks.

“Nobody else dies,” Dream says, demands, begs, and that horrible smile, the whole-body stretch, it grows,

_“Everybody dies,”_ it says, _“Everybody leaves. Everybody goes. Nobody survives. Take them out now, take them out, time. Before I become me, before I am lost. Before I become me,”_ and on repeat, flickering and glitching as it turns away from Dream, turns to Quackity and Sapnap, gathering themselves up into the air, eyes narrowing in on them.   
  
‘ _Before I become me’_ echoes like a bell chime, and the Abomination lashes out toward Sapnap, the flare where a heart should be glowing in its chest.

Sapnap avoids the first strike, beating his wings heavily despite the gnarled edges of one wing from George’s meteors. Tommy and Techno round in on the bee, both taking passing swipes as they sip past on the creature’s right, but it ignores them. It jabs out for Sapnap, again, aiming higher than he is, knowing that his momentum will line him up perfectly to take the surely fatal blow.  
  


He shifts at the last second, but he’s still pierced through, screaming through gritted teeth as muscle and nerve is torn in his shoulder, the exact point of weakness between plates of armor. Quackity yells wordlessly as he soars up toward him, ignoring the runed sword that slips from stunned fingers toward the earth. The Abomination laughs, a sound like breaking lightning and cracking trees, and both bladed hands come up, then down in a rain of death and horror that Sapnap is too distracted with pain to see, but Quackity is not. 

Once more, he darts, too slow to roll them both out of the way, but not too slow to use his own momentum to crash Sapnap back out of reach of the whirling curtain of oblivion.

Sapnap stutters and stumbles mid-air, shoved backward three, five, seven or so feet from his position under the attack and he watches, horrified, Quackity’s eyes on his.

The swords meet such little resistance as they cut him to ribbons and shards. Bone, flesh, and wing alike is split apart and cascades, crunching as it meets the ground.

Sapnap hovers there. He stares at the empty space, a fine mist of blood and a few floating feathers all that’s left of big Q, all that’s left of the man who gave his life to save Sapnap’s.

The laughter echoes horribly, fading into overwhelming static in his head, uninterrupted even as Dream lightning jumps up its side and embeds his axe in its ribs. 

Static, emptiness, watching the mist of blood settle and red raise in his vision. Sapnap trembles, his wings beat silently of his own accord behind him, shifting from yellow-white and flickering as they deepen and spread, flame licking up where bones would be and coating them like liquid. Dream is shaken off, the Abomination barely bothered, the wound once again closing up. 

Puffy grabs Wilbur’s arm and pulls him back as he surges forward toward the puddle of bloodied cotton and shattered bone that he’d once called Quackity, screaming some kind of word about warning, crying, begging the world to let him try harder.

She pulls so hard he swears his shoulder leaves his socket but he doesn’t stop, and she’s stronger than he is, it’s a fight in itself to drag him away from a fight she already knows _they’re_ not winning.

On the opposite side, Tubbo seems to be realising something similar, backing away with a musical command to the bee to follow him. They have to regroup. They have to plan. Bad is down the hill, holding base camp, they just need to get to him-

George crawls toward the fight on hands and knees, seeing blurry shapes of Sapnap burning in the edge of his vision and Dream, shining with lime light and axe in hand.

He’s weak and woozy from the extent of the meteors, but they seem to have done so little. He sketches shapes in the soft mud ahead of him, things he barely even knows, fighting to keep the threads of the spell intact as Sapnap seethes down with a scream and no weapon, plunging into the monster and tearing handfuls of feathers from its flaming wings, clawing at the shadowy flesh that forms the demonic ones, pulling handfuls of greasy hair like he hopes to make a difference. His fingernails and tears mean less than nothing, as the Abomination doesn’t even stop to claw him down- it simply beats its wings twice, hard, and sends Sapnap flying and half-conscious out behind it, its focus on Dream.

  
  


The axe does nothing, he knows it does nothing. The wound in its ribs had barely made it stutter in its vicious mockery of Quackity’s death.   
  
He’s hopeless here against himself, trying to think but terrified of this living vision of his future.   
Is it truly inevitable that this is what he will be?   
He’s known since he loved them that losing Sapnap and George would hurt him in ways he’s never known. The thought of eternity without them sears him like a brand, so hot and tight that he wishes, not for the first time, that he _could_ die along with them. He loves them, loves them all so much, to live without them for a moment is the most painful torture.   
How long has this abomination of him lived without them?  
How long does he have before he learns to utilise the loom of fate like a roadway?

  
  


George’s northmark glows bright green-blue as he presses his hand into the mud. He loses strength in his arms, collapsing down, but the axe in Dream’s hand shimmers and grows, runes dancing along its surface and divine fire burning along its edge. It’s a chance, he realises, looking at it where it burns into his skin. It’s not a victory, but it’s a possibility. He looks over his shoulder to George, watching him with one cheek pressed into the mood, squishing his glasses off of his eyes. Then to the other side, where Sapnap is pulling himself up but one wing is ruined and dark, and he’s covered in scratches and blood and mud, hopelessness settled on his skin the same way a fine rain will stick.

It’s a chance. He knows there’s a weak spot, from would-be neck down through the ribs, but he’ll have to cut through the mouth to do so and he can already see the spirals of the future unfolding. Wilbur’s voice in his mind tells him he’s right, and Ranboo’s echoes in his ears.

_To protect the people._

It’s a reckless choice, he thinks, as he plunges forward.

_But will they call it bravery in retrospect?_

He isn’t brave. But he loves, fiercely and without restriction, he loves Sapnap, he loves George, he loves this _world_ where he’d once hated it, and he wants to protect the things that he loves, no matter the cost.

He bursts himself apart, the axe cleaving down with the force of the world behind it, and the claws find him at the same moment. He knows pain, and this is it, as in a moment of perfect unity, he splits himself in halves from the future to the past.

George watches, barely conscious in the mud, as his Dream pushes the axe down and bisects the Abomination, and in the same moment, the claws find him and do the same.

The mask collapses down, split in halves alongside Dream’s body, and the _tick-tick-tick_ melts away with the Abomination’s form into the grass, twin crescents of acid that assure nothing will ever grow there again.

Then there is calm.

Silence.

George drags himself up the hill to Dream’s corpse, fingers trembling in the rivers of blood.

“No,” he chokes, “ _God,_ ”

But he’s gone.

No sound fills the air. It’s empty, silent, mourning. The fish-scales of ceramic are scattered, Sapnap’s sword embedded in the ground halfway between the two corpses. George looks up at Sapnap from the mud as he approaches, hands-and-knees, horrified and silent. 

George gurgles something unintelligible, and promptly falls unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember no character deaths will be permanent! There will be a happy ending, everything will be okay. That doesn't mean it hurts less, just means it hurts better.
> 
> Anyway I really love being told im a bastard if I write things that hurt so please feel free to insult the shit out of me!!! i actively encourage you quoting the bits that hurt the most.  
> But anything, even a "<3" helps motivate me to keep writing! I really appreciate the support yall give me!


	10. The First Resurrection - Hurts Like Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With time not on their side, the group must decide who to bring back from the grave first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Fleurie's song of the same name ("Hurts Like Hell")

Ranboo and Phil materialise at what they’re calling ‘base camp’, which is really more to sat that they’ve sat Bad down with the bloodied cotton covering the pieces of Skeppy’s corpse, as though that’s a good idea. They expect to turn up to Bad flickering, maybe even full beast.

They do not expect to turn up to… this. To Wilbur, curled in the mud crying unintelligibly, one arm wrenched at an unnatural angle that he’s firmly not letting Tubbo fix. Tommy is being held in place by Techno, one hand on his shoulder pressing him back into sitting, the other inspecting the spots where he’d been wounded.

Sam lays out unconscious, Puffy’s fingers darting over him to ensure there are no open wounds, her sword thrown with her shield and abandoned a few feet away.

Bad isn’t here.

Phil’s wings shore down in horror, and Ranboo sways so hard he almost topples over, caught expertly by the druid before he can. He sits Ranboo down in the centre of the quiet chaos, pets the top of his head, and turns to Techno, who seems to be the most functional right now,  
  
  


“What the fuck?”  
  


“Gonna need to do a couple resurrections, by the sounds of it,” Techno replies, jerking his head up the hill. Phil takes off immediately, wingbeats sending swirls of wind through the base camp. He catches up with Bad quickly, barely visible against the shadow as he, too, surges up the hill. He keeps pace from there, unwilling to leave Bad behind when he already seems so delicate, but they don’t speak.

What do you say to a man who has just lost… whatever the fuck Bad and Skeppy are? They tend to blur the borders. But regardless of their label, there’s absolutely no denying that they are one another’s heart, and one without the other is so obscenely wrong.

They coast upward together, but where Bad freezes at the top of the hill, Phil does not. He draws the blade and looks across the corpses, across George, unconscious.

  
He is, unfortunately, going to need the hedge witch awake for his opinion.  
It pains him to have to wake him, he’s clearly worn out and traumatised, but Phil digs his hand in his bag anyway and withdraws pressed mint leaves, which he crumbles in his left hand and sprinkles over George. Then it’s back in the bag, rooting around until he finds the bound blooms of elderflower that he carefully picks one from, retrieves a chunk of the ginger root from a pouch on the other side that he uses the blade to shave curls off of, pressing it into the stems of the elderflower and binding them together with silver, just two or three loops before he takes a breath and lets the green light seep along the bones of his wings again. He reaches behind himself to pluck a feather despite the discomfort, then adds it to the bundle, winding the silver along the length in a criss-cross pattern.  
  
He ducks down as Bad comes up alongside him, and the two of them silently pull George over, turning him onto his back. Phil adds a little more mint, just to be sure.  
He sets the bundle on George’s chest and pulls his hands up to lay over it, then makes a shooing gesture at Bad so that he’ll back off. He does as he’s bidden, stepping back looking shell-shocked and numb.

Phil lifts the Guillotine of Calamity and takes his breath the same way one would underwater, with searing pain and overwhelming terror, the intimate knowledge of an imminent death that he keeps teetering on the edge of. Magic swells within him and his breath trembles as it escapes, forming the ghostly images of a thousand timelines ahead of him.  
  


Phil tries not to flinch when he looks into the what-could-have-been, even when it’s terrifying. But he can’t help a reflexive step back as he sees the sheer number of possibilities where the captured image in front of him is of someone being torn apart, of teeth rending flesh and acid melting it like wax. He tries sorting through quickly, tries to see as little as possible, but that is the curse of this power. He sees leaf after leaf of Wilbur held mid-air, a scattering of various organs sprayed out like a firework and his eyes glassy in death. Leaf after leaf of Dream stood, alive but alone in the entrails of everyone he loves. And more, and more, of Tubbo, Tommy, Techno, Ranboo, all dead in front of him. He sees so few of anything else that bile rises in his throat, but he’s started the process, and time is infinite. There will be a timeline where their victory was sweeter than bitter. Where George is awake, and nobody is dead.  
  


He finds one, though he’s still not a fan of the image itself. George is awake, licked down one side with lighting scars and on his knees in the mud, Dream curled over him protectively despite the Abomination’s mouth at his back, gnawing, and the sword-like claw piercing all the way through his chest to pause a split-second from spearing George too.

The memory will haunt George forever, he knows. A memory of something that never happened, the guilt of a lifetime he never lived, a life given for him in such a vastly different way.

  
  


He raises the blade and chooses his angle, getting as little of this Dream in it as possible. The more he gathers, the worse the memory will be. It’s impossible to get a clean strike, but he does the best he can, and the sword comes down, shattering the barrier between the timelines and plunging six inches into the soft earth as Phil impresses the image onto his own time, onto George before him. He pulls constellations from the sky to sew the image in, a thread-fine line of green light that struggles to warp the image to fit but somehow does, unwinding across George’s body and pushing, wriggling in. Phil’s breath battles with his magic in his throat and his mind, the pulses of pain threatening to overwhelm the tracing of the sutures, the stars blinking out around him.

Bad sets a hand on his shoulder, and red surges to join the green.

Phil feels the beat of his heart, aching and tragic in his chest, the tears he sheds freezing and shattering as they fall among the crumbled leaves of mint. He lends Phil his strength, his resilience, where he can’t lend his magic.

It’s enough to shore up walls against the pain, make the stars easier to pick out in the sky. Phil descends, pushing down that one final time, and the image flutters for a moment before it takes, and George sits up gasping with new scars down his left cheek from the lightning in a timeline that never was.

“Hey, hey,” Phil kneels immediately, the sword hand releases to set on George’s shoulder, the other goes behind him to catch Bad’s wrist as he falls to his knees, too. “I’m sorry, George,”  
  


“He died,” George’s hands are pulled in front of his face, covered in soot and tiny flowers from the explosion of the totem he’d been given, “Oh, God,”  
  


“Yeah, I’m afraid it doesn’t get better.” Phil glances at the bisected halves of Dream, and just beyond, the puddle of Quackity that Sapnap is sobbing into. George follows his eyes, and makes a pained noise that sends a pulse of pity through Phil. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, though, and he takes his hand from George’s shoulder to wrap around the hilt of the Guillotine of Calamity once more.

He straightens, and everything hurts. His reserves are running low, his body is holding at the edge of breaking, the sword is hot to the touch.

“I can manage… maybe one more,” Phil says, voice tinged with regret, “One more person. One more spell. I can’t- I won’t be able to resurrect anyone else.”

It’s not just now, they know. Phil’s vision is limited, he won’t be able to pull them back if they wait for him to recover, it’s now, or never.

  
“Dream,” George says without hesitation, earning himself horrified glances from Bad and Sapnap. Bad is too exhausted to be angry, but Sapnap…  
  


“Why is it always fucking about Dream?” He explodes, but quietly, like a bomb barely contained, “He doesn’t _die,_ he’s coming back _anyway._ Not like- not like Q,” His fingers clench against ruined cotton, “He’s gone, if we leave him. Skeppy too. We don’t get them back unless we _bring_ them back. I don’t care that you’re fucking, I don’t know, in love with him, or whatever. Dream isn’t as important as they are.”

The words bite in his throat as soon as he says them and he knows he didn’t mean those words the way they came out, and he’s grateful that they mostly seem to gloss over in George’s mind. He doesn’t seem to be listening at all at the end, just waiting for his turn to speak.

“If we get Dream back, we have access to the wellspring,” George says pleading and numb at the same time, “Phil might not be able to- to bring them back, but I can.”  
  


“George, you’re already exhausted,” Sapnap’s anger dissipates, and he speaks despite the tremble in his hands, “It could kill _you._ ”

  
“It won’t,” George says firmly, “But I’ll have to set up full rituals, Skeppy first- we don’t have time to wait. Phil, bring Dream back.”

Phil nods in agreement,

“You’re right. He’s right! He’s right. Okay.” A breath, “Watch out, George, I don’t really wanna fuck you up any more.”

With Bad’s help, George eases out of Phil’s vision, leaving just Dream framed by a crescent of black acid.

Choosing his totem is a difficult process this time. Things of restoration and healing, sure, but he needs an anchor. Resurrection is so much more advanced than everything else, a soul can’t simply be forced back to life. Bodies are easy compared to souls. Souls- they need a reason, a holding point, an _anchor._

Something strong. 

He looks to George, to Sapnap, and winces. Friendship, or love? Neither is more important than the other, but it’s dependent on what he knows how to utilise more. And, well… love is an easier thread to tug.

“George, c’mere, actually,” he turns slightly, and George limps to his shoulder, humming assent. He’s familiar enough with resurrection rituals to understand the need for an anchor point, even if Phil’s method is vastly different to his own. Faster, too.

Phil is back in his bag, half tipping it out onto the torn-up earth to find what he needs, fingers shaking and even he’s not sure whether it’s fear or exhaustion, but it’s something he’ll break down with himself later. There is a thread of nervousness in his chest, though, and he does feel so close to tears…

“Hey Bad,” He says without looking, and hears the shuffle that means Bad is listening, “Would you- would you grab Techno for me? I need him.”

There’s an intonation in the last three words. It isn’t utility, it isn’t the calm closed-off of work, of need for a spell, not the same way he needs George at his side for this. It’s tinged with hurt, with fear and sadness and all the things Phil acknowledges but can’t give in to, when he’s here like this, the most functional of all of them. It isn’t that he crushes it down, he knows better than that. It’s compartmentalising, it’s putting it aside for when the grave doesn’t loom above them.

There’s a soft flutter, Bad’s wings erupting from his back as he acquiesces and soars off downhill. Phil continues working despite the thread coiling tighter in his chest as he waits, the tremble of his fingers ever-growing in his solitude.  
  


What does he need? It’s a resurrection, regardless of how true Dream’s death is. So he’ll need the diamonds, they’ll smooth the path for him significantly. He sets the leather pouch to the side to come back to when he makes the totem.  
He needs something to scatter to make this easier, too, something about life, or love, or… anything of that kind.  
He pulls the dried chamomile up, tied in a loose bag of cotton, the petals crumbling somewhat within. It’s a good start, but something else is needed to go with it. Patience against the odds isn’t everything, but it’s certainly a necessity right now- but patience for what? Things that Dream has waited centuries for. His eyes drag left, to George crouched beside him, to the hand extending to his supplies and pointing silently.

Three roses, red and bound together, looking only slightly worse for wear. They’re live, unlike his usual scatter powder. They’re intended for totems, but George is right. Living love, deep love, and it seems that so knocked out of his own skull, George’s sight is better than in his ability to think. The glasses are pushed up atop his head, glued in place by a thorough caking of mud.

The sound of wingbeats fills the air, and though George flinches, Phil’s shoulders slump in relief. He straightens from his supplies and turns as Bad comes over the crest of the hill, Techno half-sprinting behind, looking panicked. He relaxes as he sees Phil is alive, but doesn’t slow his pace, opening his arms as he approaches. 

Phil doesn’t crash into the offered hug, but falls into it, a steadying breath against the shoulder of his best friend. The grip against his shoulders under the wings is a relief in the tension he feels, and the fear in his chest uncoils, soothing despite its presence still being very much there. He’s always felt braver with Techno.

“Thanks,” Phil says quietly, and Techno hums,  
  


“For you, Phil, the world.”

It’s become a semi-common phrase at this point. He means it every time.

Phil returns to his work, George at his left, Techno to his right with a hand on his shoulder to steady him in the tides of the world. 

  
Chamomile and living rose petals for the scatter, mistletoe will be part of the totem… and of course, how could the other part be anything but green chrysanthemum?

  
They’re notoriously hard to maintain in L’Manberg, but they’re something Phil takes time and effort to try to keep. They’re the best flower for resurrections by miles, a symbolisation of new life and rebirth, but unique from the other kinds of chrysanthemum in that they’re so rarely found.

He barely notices Sapnap standing from Quackity’s remains to move to Bad, pulling the shorter man into a hug that’s less for comfort and more just to feel something alive. Bad clings right back, claws opening tears in the fabric of Sapnap’s clothes where the plate armor dips below his neckline.

Phil picks the chrysanthemum from his supplies carefully, the way one would handle a glass statue of a delicate spider. Then comes a handful of fluffy yarrow, something always in plentiful supply. He sets them both against the mistletoe and exhales hard, spreading his wings as green radiates out alone the bones, plucking a feather this time from the soft, downy part. He winces at the twinge of pain, worse for being a delicate area, but there’s rhyme and reason to his choice; any feather from any part of his wings would work, but the soft part, the inside, the vulnerable spot holds heart within it. It’s where he tucks those he loves when he knows they’re hurting, it’s where he himself can be hurt the easiest.  
It’s vulnerability and care, softness against utility.  
He presses it against the yarrow, mistletoe, and chrysanthemum and binds it all together with silver thread, carefully, intricately. As he comes toward the end, he reaches into the pouch of diamonds and carefully selects one. It’s one of the smaller ones, but that should be enough- between the strength of his magic and the anchor in George, there shouldn’t need to be too much to smooth the path. It’s going to be difficult, sure, there’s no argument that it’ll be easy in any sense of the word. But it’s as smooth as it can possibly be. He wraps the diamond tight against the stem of the totem, then winds and breaks the thread off. He hands the totem to George to hold, then riffles through the threads in his bag.

The silver is what he uses most often, thread-fine wire of pure metal that glitters in sunlight. He has gold, too, though that’s less useful- Gold is only generally used for non-physical restoration spells. Things like memory and mentality, for calming and soothing. 

But it isn’t any of the metals he selects now. Instead, it’s a spool of homespun yarn, bleached and redyed from Friend’s wool to be a pretty red. Mushroom dyes are probably one of Phil’s favourite things to do mindlessly, the red in this case coming from a good crop of red-gilled webcap that he and Techno had found under a birch tree in the autumn passed, so the mushrooms are running sparse at this point. He doesn’t have a terrible amount of the red thread left, but he pulls it out anyway and begins to unspool it, missing George’s brief double take.

He seems to come to himself somewhat, caked in mud and scarred down one side, he stares down at the totem, at the yarrow and chrysanthemum and the mistletoe, then up at Phil as he scatters handfuls of chamomile and rose petals over the halves of Dream’s corpse. The red thread is bright in his hand, Techno is stood silently a few feet from him, waiting for Phil’s return.  
Phil ducks to Dream’s left half and ties one end of the red thread firmly around Dream’s little finger, then straightens and beckons George over. 

George takes a moment staring dumbly before he stumbles forward, the thoughts in his head creaking almost audibly as Phil takes the totem. He’s a hedge witch, he knows what these plants mean, what these materials mean, what this _ritual_ is hinged on. He was already thinking over half of these for resurrecting Skeppy and Quackity, and he knows why _he_ was going to utilise them. But why is Phil doing it?

They’re all symbols of love, _romantic_ love. But Dream- why would he have these for Dream?

He has the puzzle pieces. He knows what the answer is, deep in the back of his mind, but it just won’t click together. He’s too tired, too hurt, too repressed. He can’t even fucking say the _word_ out loud, just agrees when someone else does it for him. He stumbles over affection and offering it, though he’s fairly quick to reciprocate when it’s given to him.

He holds his hands out and lets Phil bind his wrists together loosely with the thread, which is wound around the totem too. Phil makes a wordless nose at Techno, and the two of them shift in and move Dream’s bisected halves, grimacing at the sensation. The split mask threatens to fall from the side Techno turns, and he clamps a hand on it quickly to keep it in place.

He has his disagreements with Dream, but the mask is something he’s always so adamant about. Even in death, he has enough respect for his friend to keep it in place. He tries to ignore the mush of brain seeping out from the cleaved skull, and the way it mats chunks into his dirty blond hair. 

They push the halves together enough in the slick river of blood and internal organs, shifting Dream’s arms even as they begin to stiffen, setting them over his chest, settling the totem under his hands. Techno gives Phil one last one-armed hug before he steps back, away from the gore, in line with Bad and Sapnap. Sapnap still has an arm slung around Bad’s shoulders, Bad curled against Sapnap’s own, ignoring the hard, cold edges of armor digging into his cheek.

The dynamic seems to have shifted so much here. Bad is usually the mentor, the figurehead of guidance in their friendship. Like a reckless older brother with a heart the size of the moon, he tends to be the one offering a hand out of the roiling ocean waves. But he can’t, not here, so he’s curled against Sapnap and clinging like the younger man is a buoy in the riptides and he’s desperately trying not to drown.

Phil sits George at Dream’s left, so he’s knelt in the mud over the hollow halves of his friend.

“I know it’s not a full ritual, but- if you have something you think’ll help,” Phil says, voice roughened by emotion, “Maybe not a physical offering, but…”

“No, I have something,” George says, “Let me know when you start.”

Phil nods and steps back, just ahead of Techno. The hand returns to his shoulder, a pulse of magic just as Bad had done, shoring his resolve and sharing his pain. He feels Techno shudder and almost double over immediately as he takes on some of the ache in Phil’s bones, the burn in his throat and lungs and across the calluses of his hands. 

He draws the Guillotine of Calamity.

“I’m starting,” He tells George, and takes his last breath of air before he plunges into the oblivion of magic that coats his gravestone, the feeling ice and electric all around him. His eyes burn as he sinks through nebulae, picking out the stars that mark his path back home, colours and fortune bursting around him a thousand times. Green begins to seep out from under his feet, trailing across the ground to silhouette Dream from below. George’s breath catches in his throat in grief and terror, but he keeps it steady, waiting to see the sewing line of Phil’s magic.

Phil sorts through timelines near-identical to this one, George with different scars or Sapnap knelt in his space with a thread of yellow friendship strung between Dream and himself. Phil half-envies himself in those timelines. More skilled than he is, he assumes.

Of course, he still sees all the death, the desolation, entrails and brains and torn out throats, eyeballs plucked like delicacies and blood pouring from every orifice he can see, flayed skin and shattered bone and the world turning to dust.  
And then he finds the ones where Dream lives, and they’re just as awful- images and images of George and Sapnap and Bad scattered in pieces around Dream’s feet.  
He eventually chooses one where Dream looks physically mostly unhurt, though he can see George’s torn-open corpse curled around his ankles, as though the hedge witch had taken the final bullet to give Dream that open second of space. He’s straightened and crackling with fury, Puffy’s shield raised in one hand to block an incoming blow, and his axe dripping with black blood in the other. The monster looms overhead, but Phil has a clear-cut line to pull Dream’s life back, so he lifts the blade. It feels so heavy, like he’s lifting the weight of the world on his shoulder and he feels tears escape the corner of his eyes. A moment later, Techno’s fingers clench against his shoulder, and Phil’s wavering revolve steels.  
He can do anything as long as he has Techno with him.  
He’s braver when they’re together.

The blade comes down with a crash into the earth, but the work is not done. Phil pulls and plucks at the stars from the sky, the constellations he knows by rote suturing the image over the vision of Dream’s corpse.

In George’s view, the green light begins sewing a perfect blanket stitch around Dream’s outline, stuttering in places despite the totem that explodes into forget-me-nots across Dream’s chest. The magic is strong, but it can only do so much.

George takes a breath and shifts his hands despite the binding thread, gently pushing Dream’s blood-matted hair from his forehead. There’s nowhere that isn’t covered in blood, and a half-centimetre gap where the halves of Dream’s body slump away from one another, but George pretends it isn’t there, that his friend is whole and unharmed as he ducks down closer, his face hovers above Dream’s mask by centimetres,

“Come back,” he says, quietly, “I know you hear me, Dream. Come back. I _need_ you, Dream, I need you to come home. I’m thinking about tonight, after we’re all done here, and I’m worn out and can barely move I hurt so much, but I’m not afraid because I trust you. I know you’ll be there to carry me when I can’t walk. I- I need you to come back, I need you to _come home._ ” His voice shakes along with his hands as he sets them against Dream’s hair, blinking away tears that fall to splash on the bloodied mask.

“I love you,” he says, quietly, to the corpse he kneels before, “And I want you back so I can tell you alive.”  
  


He ducks, pressing a light kiss to Dream’s forehead despite the blood, despite everything, and he feels the red thread around his wrists pulse and burn as the magic seethes up it.

Sewing the image in, Phil suddenly feels all resistance against the magic give way, and a surge of power follows. The image doesn’t just fit into place, it _slams_ itself into the timeline and cracks away all doubt it could fail, the halves of Dream’s body glow a bright forest green that shifts to blue-green, and when it fades away, Dream’s breath is rasping in his throat and Phil is collapsing into Techno’s waiting arms. He’s barely conscious, wings slumped, grip lost. Techno loops one arm around him, pulls the sword from the ground with the other and clumsily re-sheathes it at Phil’s side.

Dream sits up, gasping, the mask slipping off of his face as he does so. His body may be repaired, but his clothes certainly are not, and the ruined ceramic lays in scattered scales around him, cloth pooling where he draws his knees up. He looks down at his hands, trembling and burnt with the imprint of runes from the axe. He takes a few trembling breaths, then turns to George, who’s staring at him with wide eyes circled with burns.

  
  


“I heard you,” Dream says quietly, “I’ve never been resurrected like that before.”  
  


“Dream,” George’s voice breaks over the word and he breaks the charred remains of the red thread to throw his arms around Dream’s neck, feeling fingers clench in the fabric at his back. George takes deep breath, smelling the familiar, permeating scent of ozone and leaf litter that Dream carries everywhere, over the scent of blood and mud. He smells like home, despite everything.

  
“I remember I saw you die,” Dream says, voice rough and heart aching, he turns his face into the crook of George’s neck, “I saw you die for me.”

  
“I saw you die for me, too,” George half-whispers, “Right in front of me, protecting me. And then again, here, in this time… Dream…” He chokes, and holds him like he has the world in his hands. A breath. Two. Dream lifts his head from George’s shoulder and an arm from his back, reaching out to Bad and Sapnap wordlessly.

  
  
They collapse into him, scuffling to find the position on the ground where they can all cling to one another, hands balling in fabric and smoothing across skin where Dream’s layers fray away. Once they pull apart, George pulls his overcoat off to drape around Dream’s shoulders, and Sapnap is already peeling out of his top layer of pants. He has the padded leggings underneath to help with the armor anyway, so even though they’ll be fairly short, it’s better than Dream just having his whole hog out for the rest of this emotional journey.

He turns away to dress, taking a few steps out as he wriggles into Sapnap’s pants, and George looks hesitantly from Dream to Bad and Sapnap, who are still half-clinging to one another. Sapnap makes a gesture toward Dream with his head, encouraging, and George nods almost numbly before scrabbling up and padding toward Dream, staying behind him as he pulls himself into Sapnap’s pants. They ride kind of low, and the cuffs are halfway up his ankle, but it works well enough. Dream turns as he’s pulling George’s overcoat on, lucky that the hedge witch likes his outerwear too big for him, and he freezes as he makes eye contact with George. One hand lets go of the jacket’s lapels and reaches up to touch his own cheek, eyes widening fractionally as he meets flesh and not ceramic.

“Yeah,” George breathes, and Dream swallows.

His eyes are dark, sclera blackened and purple glitter dancing around the edges. His irises are green, pupils slitted, blue-green in the centre and lime green around the edges with striations of color stretching between the two edges. 

They perfectly match the abomination that he has just cut apart, and George lifts a hand to Dream’s cheek, saying nothing. Dream leans into it, setting his palm against the back of George’s hand.

“I’m so scared, George,” He whispers, and George runs his thumb back and forth a couple of times.

  
  
“It was you?” He asks, like is isn’t expecting the answer. Dream presses George’s hand slightly harder to his cheek, as though he’s afraid he’ll pull away as he nods. George makes a noise of broken pity.

  
  
“I think it’s me, but… from the future. I don’t know how far away, but after- after I lose you, and Sapnap, and Bad, and- and everyone. It was like it tore pieces off and kept them for itself.”

  
  
“Puffy’s horns,” George says quietly, “Sapnap and Bad’s wings, your eyes-”

  
  
“Ranboo’s, too,” Dream interjects, and George hums gently.

  
  
“My northmark,” he says quietly, and Dream nods again,

“I don’t want to lose any of you, but I can’t die. I’ll watch you die, and I won’t be able to do anything about it. _God,_ ” his voice chokes off and he turns his face to nuzzle into George’s palm. He’s crying, tears slipping out under closed eyelids, across freckles down his cheeks. George lets him take what he needs, shifting his free hand out to take Dream’s, loose at his side.   
“I love you,” Dream says, softly, right against George’s skin, “I love you all, but I love you.”

“I know,” George says, because he does. Just because it won’t resonate within him right now doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. 

“It’s okay if you can never say it to my face,” Dream turns and pulls his face from George’s hand, threading his fingers through George’s instead, “As long as you’re happy.”

“You deserve to be happy, too,” George says, and Dream gives a broken laugh that is more of a breath than anything, shaking his head.

  
He lets quiet stretch for a few long seconds before looking over at Bad and Sapnap.

  
  


“Let’s resurrect Skeppy and Q,” he says, “And then, when everyone is okay, we can rest.”

  
There’s hesitation. George squeezes his fingers.

  
  


“What’s wrong?”

Dream looks at the crescents of acid.

“I can’t die,” he says, brow creased, “So if that’s me, it can come back. It’ll- it’ll take time, but if it can choose when to come back to… I don’t know when we’ll see it again.”

“Will can lock it down for a spell,” Phil speaks from his place against Techno’s shoulder, looking utterly miserable, “It won’t last more than a couple of days, I won’t be able to do any magic, and he won’t be able to _see_ , but… he can lock it down. Lock the timeline. Stop anything from interfering.”

  
Dream doesn’t voice his concern that it won’t work, just nods,

“Let’s try that. We’ll get Wilbur on it, then we’ll resurrect Skeppy, then Q. Are you sure you’re up to it?” The last directed at George, who nods firmly,

“Even if I can’t move, I know you’ll carry me home.” He says with conviction, and Dream smiles as he nods once, firmly, leans in to kiss George’s forehead in a soft mirror of what George had done during the resurrection,

“Of course I will.”

George slips his hand into Dream’s, and turns to look over the crest of the hill,

“The night isn’t over yet. Let’s go bring Skeppy back.”

He receives quiet hums of assent, and they start back toward their friends, united and trembling in the anticipation of the hurdles to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual spiel, even something as simple as a <3 helps motivate me to keep writing!
> 
> I know I say it every time but it never gets any less true. I struggle with interaction, so i don't tend to reply unless you have questions, but I read every comment i get and wriggle like a dumbass because i am usually in bed and its what i wake up to.
> 
> Also for clarity's sake; fic is Not intended to ship Techno and/or Phil. i am simply a Big Fan of drawing emotional strength from the presence of your friends.


	11. Second Resurrection - Hand Over Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title comes from Roland Faunte's song of the same name ("Hand Over Hand")
> 
> The time comes to resurrect Skeppy, though no resurrection is easy, and each comes with sacrifices to be made...

Sapnap slips to Dream’s side opposite George, takes his hand with all the grace of the gravity of the world. They’re a chain of held hands and clutched humanity, with nothing said of the way Bad walks a little too close to Sapnap, bumping him awkwardly when they move the wrong way. There’s nothing said of the hold Sapnap has on Dream’s hand, or the difference between that and the way George’s fingers interlock with Dream’s. 

Techno gives up supporting Phil halfway down the hill, always the exact midpoint between patient and impatient. Instead, he shifts to hoist Phil up on his back, letting the wings furl around him like a hug where Phil’s arms don’t have the strength to hold on.

They return to base camp, drawing attention from the group as they plod down. Puffy straightens from Sam at their silhouettes and darts over Wilbur’s prone form to race over, barely giving Dream the time to let go of George and Sapnap’s hand before she’s crashing into him, having to jump a clean few inches off the ground so her horns don’t immediately spear his shoulder. He catches her, because of course he does, and holds her for a few long moments before she wriggles with the discomfort and he lets go. Free of his grip, she lifts a hand to trail down the faint scar bisecting his face, meeting his eyes truly for the first time.

“Oh… duckling,” it’s said full of heartbreak and pity, with no tears but the feeling of throats closing over in an attempt not to break. She recognises the eyes now, where before she’d simply taken interest in the way the monster reacted to the name. It isn’t fear in her voice, though, and when Dream blinks, he’s surprised to find tears spilling down his cheeks. Puffy pulls him back in, pausing to pull the overcoat across his chest so she can comfortably set her face against his shoulder, angled just right that she doesn’t stab him with her horns but is breathing directly into heavy cotton. That part isn’t comfortable, but she does it anyway, holding him so gently even he’s afraid he might break if she holds any tighter. 

George ghosts his fingers over Dream’s arms as he returns Puffy’s embrace, stepping past him with that passing farewell to move to the bloodied cotton swathing Skeppy’s remains. He unwraps the body with great care, fingers trembling as they move slowly over fabric.  
He tries not to look at Skeppy’s face, when he unwraps him, but it’s impossible not to when he’s trying to piece him back together like a jigsaw puzzle.

Bad was right about his insides. As George is shifting the various broken pieces of his friend’s body, he glances at the parts that shouldn’t be visible. It’s… strange, how Skeppy is built; his bones are solid single pieces of crystal, cut as though deliberate. It’s all cyan where it’s repelled the blood, but there is still plenty of blood coating the outsides. The muscle and flesh also appears crystalline, but more like striations of thin crystals that look like they would flex and shift just as human flesh does. When he reaches the torso, he can make out shattered shapes of what would be organs on any regular person. Intestines, a liver, kidneys, all coated in blood but still discernible.

There are chunks of Skeppy missing, still. Pieces that perhaps were torn off and eaten, or tossed too far for the panicking hunters to retrieve in the battle against the Abomination. A whole section of his head and face- almost a perfect eighth- is torn back across the jaw, revealing the cyan crystalline skeleton below. It’s cracked in places, too, thin fractures spiralling across the would-be cheekbone under the skin on the other side, stained red in blood. The blood seems to gather in those cracks, highlighting them further against the translucence of the undamaged skeleton.

Sapnap has come up to his side, leaving Bad to _Tommy_ of all people. Despite the younger’s general tendency toward humour and vulgarity to deal with dark situations, it’s obvious that he’s making a concerted effort not to swear, as they keep catching words bitten off after the first vowel. Sure, he’s still cracking jokes about women and the occasional drug, but for Tommy, this is _incredibly_ considerate. They even see Bad’s mouth curl into almost a smile a couple of times.

There’s a yelp from behind them, and every head turns at once, hands going toward weapons. Their eyes land on Tubbo, one foot planted hard on Wilbur’s side and both hands on his shoulder, which now no longer appears to be dislocated, at least. Tubbo looks up, grinning with pride,

“He finally let me put it back in! Does anyone have, uh…” he waves his hands, gesturing as the word escapes him.  
  
  


“A sling,” Tommy completes for him, and Tubbo points at him excitedly,  
  
  


“A sling! Yes!”

Tommy gives a snort of laughter, and Sapnap shuffles over, fingers unclasping the cape from his shoulder. The fabric is torn and somewhat tattered, but it’s sturdy enough for the two of them to manhandle Wilbur into sitting so they can tie the sling in place, pinning it behind his neck. Wilbur nods mute thanks, and Phil approaches on unsteady legs, Techno a moment behind him in case he needs to catch the druid as he falls,

“Will, I know you’re right fucked up,” He says, reaching a hand out to set on Wilbur’s good shoulder, “But I need you to lock the timeline down. Nothing gets in or out.”

Wilbur’s eyes widen in fear at the statement, and he shakes his head mutely, making Phil grimace,

“I know, but you’ve gotta. That thing- it could come back, Dream reckons. Thinks it can travel through time.” He doesn’t mention that the thing might be Dream himself. That’s not particularly his business.

“I- I can’t,” Wilbur rasps, throat hoarse from screaming, “Not by myself, at least. We’d have to go back to L’Manberg, I’d need Karl…”

Ranboo sways to his feet and disappears before Phil can talk him out of it, and there’s a shivering silence that follows. Wilbur’s head whips from Ranboo’s empty space, where the purple glitter is still settling, to Philza.

“Do _not_ let him near- near Quackity.” The name chokes in his throat, and Phil’s fingers flex against his good shoulder,

“I’ll try my best, mate. But there’s only so much you can do- you can’t hide the fact that he’s _dead_ , that’s not right.”

“I know, I know,” Wilbur raises his good hand, presses his face into his palm.

Tubbo hums, half soothing, half thinking, as he pets Wilbur’s head,

“Big Q knew it was a risk, Wilbur,” He says wisely, “He knew coming in he’d probably die. He came anyway. He’s brave.”

“He’s stupid,” Wilbur bites back, “And he’s gone.”

“Not for long.” Tubbo soothes cheerily, and Wilbur gives him a _withering_ look. Tubbo’s smile doesn’t falter as he looks up at the moon and studies the sky,   
“Ranboo shouldn’t be long. What does it take- what, seven minutes straight there? So give him like fifteen.”

“The ritual can be well underway by then.” Phil sits down on the floor, wings drawn around himself as he shivers. There’s a pause, and then Techno’s cape is swept off of his own shoulders and draped around Phil’s. The druid smiles and pulls it around himself tighter, reveling in the warmth and emotional comfort that comes with it. Techno plops to the ground beside him. 

George and Sapnap manage to piece Skeppy together eventually, and by the time they’re done, Dream, Bad, and Puffy have come up to their side. Bad chokes out a sad little whine, and Sapnap pulls him into a hug that Bad buries his face into.

“I’m gonna, uh,” George says eloquently, turning away from his friends to pad over to Phil and crouch, one hand resting lightly on his bag. He opens his mouth to speak, but Phil is already waving his hand,

“Go ahead.”

“Anything I shouldn’t touch?” George asks, gathering the bag up. Phil tries to think, but his head hurts when he does, so he shakes it instead,

“Don’t think so, but one of us will yell if you pick something up.”

George nods at him and stands to return to the others, where he sets the bag down beside his own. He takes a breath, and dips in to begin work.

Red yarn set out on Skeppy’s stomach, followed quickly by mistletoe and a single red rose. Silver thread, then gold, and the tiny pouch of diamonds.

Then to his own supplies, where he withdraws the stoppered bottle of honey and lightning charcoal, then a smattering of forget-me-nots and some of Skeppy’s own crystals that he’s found over the years to work exceptionally well as a scatter, since they tend to be conduits for the magic.

He’ll need diamond dust for the ritual paste, which he does have some of in his bag. He’s running over combinations in his head- sugar, he thinks, and blueberries too. It’ll be better with water than honey, and he does have some holy water from Niki in the bottom of his bag.

Diamonds, sugar, blueberries, holy water. What’s missing? Some kind of grounding element, sure, but some kind of floral element too.

He glances up at Bad, then back down. Red salvia, he decides. Skeppy is Bad’s heart, just as Bad is Skeppy’s in turn, and the love they share has no confines, no boundaries, no name. They are love. They just _are._

“Who’s making offerings?” George asks, glancing about the group. Bad raises a hand immediately, closely followed by Puffy, and then, surprisingly,

“I am,” Techno speaks from behind them, and George turns to raise an eyebrow at him. He’s still sat beside Phil, but straight up, eyes trained on George,

“You sure, Techno? Gets a bit emotional. You know.”

“I know,” Techno says without a trace of hesitation, “I want Skeppy back. I’m making an offering.”  
  
Phil’s head thunks into his shoulder, and he pauses to put an arm around his exhausted friend,

“I’ll go second.”

“I want to be first,” Bad says, but George shakes his head,

“You should be last. It’ll be- that’s what’s going to work better. Trust me.”

Bad opens his mouth to protest, but glances over the supplies that George has laid out, and closes it again. He just nods, and Sapnap rubs comforting circles into his back as Bad clings to him. 

George begins his work with the rune paste, pulling a series of little vials from his bag and setting them out, leaning against Skeppy’s corpse, as he begins measuring things out. Powdered silver and gold go in the first, tiny pinches of each- they’re expensive and hard to get hold of- and he gently pushes a red salvia flower down into it with a glass rod, grinding it all together in the bottom. It’s still a very thick mixture, but he hasn’t added the water or blueberries yet, so it makes sense.

He takes a second vial and measures out a small amount of sugar into it. Sugar isn’t exactly easy to come by, mostly imported over from El Rapids on the coastline. Quackity and Karl make the journey to their hometown once every couple of months, usually with George and Sapnap tagging along- after all, El Rapids is where they’d taken shelter after first running away. They might be under the thumb of the kingdom over there, but they hold no loyalty for it

With the sugar, he tentatively takes and adds one- two- three pinches of diamond dust, then plucks a blueberry from the carefully bound pack of them and adds it to the vial. He sees fingers dart in, and watches Bad quickly snag a couple of blueberries for himself, popping them in his mouth one at a time. George smiles at him.

He pushes the glass rod in and begins to stir, the juice from the blueberry seeping between the crystals of sugar and powdered diamond, making it a thick but workable paste. He sets the vial back down and withdraws the holy water from Niki, and a tiny glass-and-rubber pipette that he uses for the restricted liquids specifically. He pulls the cork from the bottle, cracking the wax seal, and gently takes out a few droplets. He adds it- three drops- to the blueberry-sugar mix first. He swirls and crushes it until the texture is too thin to be a paste, and is really more of a slurry. Kind of like a smoothie.

He upends that into the first vial, with the metals and the salvia, then adds another two drops of holy water to mix into it. It’s now a good consistency, with small, visible flecks of red-orange from the salvia flower, but an overall rich, purple-red color from the blueberry.

He looks up at the others, who are watching him carefully as he begins gently peeling layers of fabric from Skeppy’s corpse where they still lie, and starts scrawling out symbols in the paste he’s made. He murmurs words as he works, a language long forgotten and never understood, watching the fractals of magic as they shimmer into place between his runes. He wonders where to place his northmark; somewhere accessible, usually the head or throat, but he knows that in at least the last offering, those will be otherwise occupied. So he instead shifts down, setting the northmark over Skeppy’s sternum, which is cracked inward but otherwise intact. There’s faint bruising across his chest from where his body had still maintained the ability to do so, but George at least suspects that it’s simply where the vessels had been burst and stagnant blood spread. It’s going to hurt like hell to pull Skeppy back into his body, aside from the physical damage from the monster, his body is beginning to go into rigor mortis. The faster they resurrect him, the better it’ll be, but it’s unlikely he’ll be able to move for a hot second after he wakes up. And it _is_ going to hurt.

He writes out the northmark and steps back, shaking his hand to clean off as much of the paste as he can. Then he wipes it on his pants. Dream comes to his side to slip his hand into George’s, half comfort, half utility, as the hedge witch looks up and around the group.

“Puffy, are you ready? You’re first.”

A pause, as Puffy’s hand darts over her belongings before settling on her sword hilt, and they all see her hesitance before she nods,

“I’m ready.”

George takes a breath and plunges forward with Dream’s hand in his, surging forward directly into the wellspring as he sets his hand out onto the northmark and every sigil turns alight. The red thread at the side trembles with the shake of the earth under the immense power, and when George’s eyes open again, they’re fully overtaken with bright green-blue light that begins to pour outward from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears- everywhere it can, leaving searing burns in its wake. Like flame, it licks around his hand on the northmark, and Puffy knows it’s her time to step up.

She takes a breath and steps in beside Skeppy, drawing her sword,

“You’re an idiot,” She says, but her voice is affectionate and aching, “A brave, reckless idiot. And of course, _I_ want you back, because life isn’t the same without you, my friend- but that’s not why I’m asking for you to come back.”

She sets the sword in the crook of Skeppy’s right arm, fingers trailing over the runes that pulse rhythmically once they touch the scatter of crystals and salvia that covers his corpse,

“You know why I’m asking for you back, and it isn’t just for me.” She glances up at Bad, then back, “It’s not right to have you apart. I don’t want to look at the void beside Bad and know you should be there, I don’t want to know that I might have been able to stop you dying if I’d been here. I don’t want to feel guilty for the rest of my life. Please, Skeppy,” she rests her hand over Skeppy’s own, cold and stiff in death, “Come back.”

There’s a pulse of light, and the swords’s runes shift from the rainbow hues of Puffy’s magic to George’s green-blue, and brighter, and brighter, until the whole sword evaporates in a pyre of cyan flame, and when it dies down, it’s completely gone. Only silvery soot remains in its place, and Puffy makes a plaintive noise in the back of her throat at the sacrifice. Despite the heartache, it seems that the offering took. One hook into life through the grave- not good, but better than trying to push a resurrection without.

She takes a breath and steps back, eyes drifting from Skeppy’s corpse over to Techno,

“Your turn,” She says, and returns to Bad’s side. Techno wobbles as he stands up, glancing down at Phil,

“Can I borrow your sword?”

“Sure,” Phil is drawing the Guillotine of Calamity, trusting Techno inherently, though he does glance at the empty sheath where Techno’s own sword used to hang, then up to Techno’s face as he hands the blade over. Techno grimaces.

“Don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Phil flashes him a tense smile, and Techno blinks at him appreciatively, takes the sword, and marches over to Skeppy’s side, capeless shoulders shivering finely- and not from the cool summer air. 

Techno doesn’t generally display when he’s nervous or upset, usually because he _isn’t_ nervous or upset. It’s rare to find him with this vulnerability outside of Phil’s solitary company. 

He’s good at hiding it, on the rare occasions he does experience it. The fact it’s being displayed now is a choice, part of his offering; he is opening himself up and letting his heart show.

The fingers of his left hand press into Skeppy’s shoulder as he reaches the side of the corpse, his right hand white-knuckled around the hilt of Phil’s sword, staring down at one of his oldest friends laid out in pieces in front of him. 

He can hear the pained half-pants over words from George behind him, reciting components of the spell needed to pull Skeppy’s soul back into this broken body, fix up the fractures that litter his form.

“You know me,” He says, voice rough and half-rasping as he struggles to pick out the words he wants. He’s usually so well-spoken, able to pick out his thoughts into words, but when it comes to vulnerability… he finds himself lost in the wide ocean of fear and uncertainty. He blinks, and finds that his eyes are clouded over with tears, and that they’re spilling over his cheeks to splash onto Skeppy’s body.

“I’m not one for… feelings, or expressing them. It’s the one time words elude me. Telling you that I’ll miss you is redundant, you already know I would. Maybe we don’t talk as often as we used to when we lived out in the edges of the kingdom, but you know-” he chokes as his throat decides it’s time to sob, and he crushes it down reflexively, “- You know that you’re still my friend. Even when you drive me up the wall.”

He lifts Phil’s sword with his hand shaking and tugs his braid back straight, taut away from his head. He hears a bitten-off gasp from _someone,_ probably Tubbo, but doesn’t acknowledge it as he tucks the blade at the base of his neck and takes a breath. He hasn’t cut his hair in mourning in many years. Nobody that he cared about enough to mourn. 

He cuts. 

The blade moves cleanly through the taut strands, always kept exceptionally sharp despite its use as an anchor point for spells. He has to hack a little at the end, where the hair that falls is longer and looser, chunks uneven but he’s not worrying about neatness now. The braid, tied, comes away and he sets it as a material offering on Skeppy’s chest.

“Don’t make me miss you.”  
  
It isn’t begging, but it’s damn near close, and he closes his eyes as he lets his shoulders drop.

“Please.”

The hair bursts into a pyre of green-blue flame that sizzles faintly when Techno’s tears meet it, but the fire burns for a few seconds before dissipating, taking with it the cut-off braid. The offering appears to have been taken, and Techno’s breath trembles in his throat as he steps back, looking to Bad with words swallowed and regurgitated in his throat.

“Give him everything,” He says, and Bad’s face scrumples up as he fights tears,

“He _is_ everything.” 

Techno doesn’t reply, but steps away from Skeppy’s corpse to return to Phil’s side, handing over his sword and sitting beside him. Phil bumps his shoulder to Techno’s gently, warmly,

“I can clean it up when we get home,” He says quietly, jerking his head toward Techno’s hair. His friend runs a hand through the newly shorn length,

“I’d appreciate that, yeah.”

Phil nods, and they both turn their placid attention back to Skeppy, where Bad is crawling up to his side. He takes the spool of red thread from beside his body, winding it around the stems of the rose and mistletoe to set against Skeppy’s chest before he hesitates, and then unspools a length of it alone to tie silently around Skeppy’s little finger, then his own. His hands shake as he gently sets them over the totem, against Skeppy’s chest, close enough to George’s northmark that his fingertips burn from the proximity of the magic.

He ducks his head.

“I don’t have to tell you that I love you. I know that you know.” His voice is quiet and aching, his eyes scrunched shut to try and force away the tears. His fingers clench in the ruined fabric of Skeppy’s shirt, the little finger of his left hand knocking up against the tiny metal badge of Bad’s symbol that Skeppy wears always, just as Bad wears his.

“I’m going to tell you that I love you anyway,” he chokes, “Because I do. I love you. I need you. Life without you _terrifies_ me, it’s everything I’m afraid of, because you’re- you’re everything to me, Skeppy,” Bad ducks his head down to press to Skeppy’s broken collarbone, where the westmark of George’s magic burns brightly into his skin.

“When I’m asking you to come home, I don’t mean back to the mansion. I mean come home to me. Skeppy, I _love_ you. Please,” He swallows as tears threaten to close off his throat, “Don’t leave me here alone. Don’t leave me.”

The fire burns in lines across him, taking the totem and the red string with it and searing burnt runes into his skin. It’s not enough, though, and the fire keeps burning across him, demanding a sacrifice. Bad breathes, his breath fogging in the air despite the fact it’s nowhere near cold enough for it.

“You can take anything from me, everything from me. But you can’t have Skeppy.” He says, and the words ricochet like bells, shadowy flesh spiralling out to form his wings on his back, the halo that circles his head flickering into existence, glowing red.

“Anything but him. He’s mine.”

The fire erupts, consuming, running over Bad’s skin and they all hear the piercing, pained scream from within but not one person moves to interrupt the ritual. Bad’s sacrifice is his alone to make. 

The fire burns for three, four, five seconds, before it flickers back down to faint lines and Bad collapses back from Skeppy’s body heaving for air. Puffy takes this chance to dart in, now that the sacrifice has been freely given, pulling Bad up off the floor.

“What did you give?” She asks quietly, and Bad rolls his shoulders, wincing. All across his back burns, searing with pain, and light still fills his vision and makes it half-dark.

“My halo,” he says- murmurs- as he all but collapses into her grip, “And my wings.”

Puffy pulls him into a half-hug as she carries him aside, where Sapnap steps in to help sit Bad down and the two of them peel away the layers of Bad’s clothes at the back to inspect the burn scars on his shoulder blades. His wings aren’t always present, but where they would appear, there is now a very prominent set of scars and soot swiped marks. Similarly, there’s a band of burn scars across Bad’s face, over his eyes, the same way a blindfold would rest and the usual space his halo would fill in the rare times he has it summoned and present, a band of light that has been permanently imprinted onto his skin. His eyes are solid bleached out, all the green gone from them now, with the iris barely visible against the sclera and the pupils a solid flashing white. Sapnap thumbs gently over the scars, under Bad’s eye, frowning his concern, but Bad doesn’t even wince. He seems to still be catching his breath and blinking, and when Sapnap’s hand comes away from his face, Bad is leaning forward to be caught in a hug. Sapnap pulls him in, and Puffy pets his hair on the other side, finding his tail winding around her wrist in the essence of a hug he doesn’t have the energy to give. 

Back, George’s body thrums with light. The sacrifices are given, but the ritual is far from over- they all seem to have taken, but triangulating the three hooks into Skeppy’s soul and dragging him back- but it’s still his choice. George’s spell is a hand out, an olive branch, a rope thrown down into the void. Skeppy still needs to climb it. All he can do is hold on and pull.

It’s different to Phil, though he still uses the stars and the nebula to pick out the path his magic must take. It’s a roadway, a trail traced through infinity from one world to the next and onward, onward, and onward, beyond the boundaries of life and into the ice-cold river that runs the name of Death, the gates of the grave looming large in the fear. The more one fights to live, the easier it is to leave that silver trail behind, the ability to trace back through the gates of death. Past the first gate, the world becomes treacherous, with pitfalls able to sweep even the magic-inclined along and away. Resurrections are not a safe or simple matter, even for those that are living and providing the pathway.

George knows he’s still speaking, still casting, pulling pathways between the stars and taking cautious steps but he distantly hurts. He knows that his body is not holding up to the force of the night and there’s a flicker of fear before he feels warmth envelop his physical body. It’s a thousand miles away, but he still feels it; Dream keeps one hand clasped in George’s own, and pulls him into a hug, tucking the shorter man’s head under his chin as he gives and gives and gives, offering up all that his is. They are intertwined in this moment, a thousand ways outside of the physical, their fingers and bodies and souls and minds. He’s not alone as he forges through the tangled wilds. Dream is at his side, exactly where he’s always been.

They search for Skeppy together in the afterlands, leaving a spool of thread behind them to guide them home. 

Death is grey and visibility is low, the running water around their ankles cold in a way so vastly separate from the way ice is cold. It’s cold in the way that absence is, in the way that heartbreak is cold. The way an old friend looks at you years after your final argument where you both realised there was nothing left that could be saved.

It hurts, and it aches, and it’s permeating, but there’s nothing changeable about it. An immutable fact that they wade through, eyes peeled for any glint of cyan in the expanse of grey.

“What’s that?” Dream’s voice echoes so unnaturally in the endless landscape, and George follows the eyeline he cannot see to the glint of something unusual in the water, shifting weakly. They move as one toward it and find a cyan skeleton, crystalline and trembling as though shivering in the cold waters of death. They have no physical form here but they crouch anyway, knowing inherently that this is who they are here to find. The threat they trail behind them comes, loops around the ribs of the skeleton.

“We’ve come to take you home,” George says, though it’s not words and really more like a feeling, “Hold tight.”

There’s no voice to the skeleton, to Skeppy, but the hands come up and wrap around the thread, the head tilts to look up toward the empty space where George and Dream’s presence is felt, plaintive and begging, and Dream’s fingers tighten between George’s. The hedge witch takes a heavy breath, his body in life slowly coalescing more and more ice crystals, a fine layer of frost across his and Dream’s skin, even where his free hand presses into magical flame. Dream keeps his face tucked against George’s hair despite the rime of ice cloaking the both of them. He holds George close and gives himself over to his prince entirely, not just putty in his hands, but clay. He is moldable and fragile at once, breakable despite his ceramic strength. He can withstand heat, is only made stronger by the pain, but there’s such a chance that he can explode that laying that responsibility within George’s palms is all he can do. He’s known that he’s lost to the hedge witch for years. He finds this is where he’d like to die.

George traces the path back through the stars, his grip tight on the thread that pulls Skeppy along behind him as he drags himself, hand-over-hand, into the unknown space between the living and the dead. This is where they can lose themselves easiest, never truly dying, but never again alive. Forgotten to the world with souls fragmented in that gap between worlds, like losing pens to the side of chairs and fingers aching as you search with the tips in a place you don’t see, but there’s no grip to be found.

“Don’t give up,” Dream’s voice, echoing around them all, “You’re so close.”

They don’t know who he’s talking to anymore, but it doesn’t matter. George’s breath stutters and burns in his chest but he points out the north star and knows his way home.

The world arrives in a burst of color, warm summer air and the smell of blood and ozone and leaf litter and the feeling of ice flaking off of his skin as he lifts his head from Dream’s throat to look at Skeppy’s corpse. Words spill out of him unbidden and unknown but welcome, the closing bookend of a spell he hurts to cast. The fine trails of silver threaded magic wind around Skeppy’s form, sewing the pieces together with the shapes of constellations. Coma Berenices sews itself in a horizontal swipe from his left shoulder down to his hip and sinks in, leaving glowing pockmarks in its place. 

The words of recall and finish burn George’s tongue as they spill from his mouth but he speaks them anyway, sinking into the magic and grasping his northmark with all that he is. He calls Skeppy’s name into the sky, and light burns around his hand brighter, spreading across Skeppy’s body and burning, _burning,_ every eye in the vicinity turns away from the vicious pyre as it threatens to blind them

The light dies down.

Breath rasps in Skeppy’s throat.

Bad surges forward, already crying, as they see Skeppy’s eyelids flicker, panic in every shift of his chest, and it’s Puffy to set her hands on his head gently,

“Shh, it’s okay,” she soothes, “It’s going to take a bit for you to be able to move again. Don’t panic. We’re here.”

“ _Skeppy,_ ” Bad chokes, laying himself out over Skeppy’s rapidly warming, _intact_ body, and that’s all he says. Just repeats the name again and again and again, crying unrestrained into Skeppy’s chest. Puffy knows he’d have his arms around Bad if he could, but without that option, she sets a hand in Bad’s hair. George, spent, collapses fully into Dream’s chest, and the latter begins gently sweeping frost off of him as he looks over to Sapnap and blinks, gesturing him in. Sapnap joins them, hands soft as he smooths ice off of George’s skin,

“You guys did great,” he says gently, “I’m so proud of you.”

“It’s all George,” Dream replies, planting a reserved kiss to George’s hair, “It’s always George. How are you? Are you okay?”

George’s breath rattles, but he nods, unmoving otherwise from his slump in Dream’s arms. He simply doesn’t have the energy to move. Even speaking feels out of reach, but he finds his tongue after a few moment of Dream cuddling him in, and Sapnap’s hands running through his hair and across his clothes.

“Quackity,” he rasps, and Sapnap winces,

“You’re exhausted.” He says. He doesn’t argue. He wants Quackity back, and he wants George safe. The two war it out in his mind, but he doesn’t need to think about it for long, as George summons everything within him and sits up, grabbing the spool of red thread from Skeppy’s side, and Phil’s bag from below. And up the hill he marches, slow and sluggish in the absolute exhaustion overwhelming him. Dream follows diligently.

Behind them, Techno has thunked his head down onto Phil’s shoulder, relieved breath catching in his throat. Phil smiles, just slightly, but doesn’t comment on it- he knows that Techno would prefer to just _ignore_ this vulnerability, this softness. He’s limited in the care he shows. They are public, right now, and if Techno wants to talk about it, then he will. But later, in their home, over tea and the crackling fire, swathed in blankets opposite Phil in their main room/

“How long’s it been?” Phil directs at Wilbur, though it’s Tommy that answers,

“About a half hour.”

“Worryin’,” Phil comments, and Tubbo shakes his head,

“Nah, he’d have to get Karl out of bed, and he’ll probably check on Fundy. He’ll be back any minute. Just you wait.”

So they watch the reunion instead, Skeppy’s steady breath and Bad’s tears, Puffy beside them both, with relief thick in throats and anticipation weighing in the air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If u cried please call me a bastard in the comments. Feel free to substitute bastard for any insult you prefer, i thrive on knowing that my writing has the intended emotional effect!
> 
> And if you enjoy my writing but don't comment well, please know even things as simple as "<3" really help motivate me to keep writing! It might not seem like a lot, but seeing active interaction with my work and knowing people enjoy it is so important to me. thank u.
> 
> as usual this fic does Not ship phil and techno i just thrive on their friendship.


	12. Third Resurrection - A Sparrow or A Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Flower Face's song "Another Life", which was the theme for this chapter and I cried for it.
> 
> Ranboo retrieves Karl to help lock down the timeline, and they finally get to the spell to resurrect Quackity...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a MONSTER chapter! Just over 10k words! Hope you're ready!

Ranboo is having trouble holding himself together- or apart, more accurately- as he whirls through the forest path back to L’manberg. He has a solid idea in his mind going, repeating on a loop. 

_Gotta protect people. Gotta get Karl. Gotta take him back. Gotta resurrect Quackity. Gotta keep people safe._

As he moves, he loses his grip on even that, and it slowly melts away until it leaves just the kernel behind. _Bring Karl to protect everyone._

It’s hard to ignore the small animals in the undergrowth, even when he’s at full mental capacity. But now it’s a physical fight, having to drag pieces of himself along, gathering himself up away from the piqued interest in the badgers and foxes.

He charges along until he reaches the walls, and crosses them. Past the docks of the river, where he briefly spots Fundy sat with his head in his hands next to a semi-familiar cloaked figure, and he can’t help but rush over and swirl around Fundy for a moment,

“Hey, Ranboo,” the guard says, voice exhausted, and his companion gives a warm laugh,

“We’re not what you’re here for, right? Go on. I’ve got him.”

  
Reassured, Ranboo scoots off, leaving a drift of purple dust that dissipates behind him. 5up watches him go, then turns his attention back to Fundy, who lifts his head to look right back.

  
  


“I’m worried, alright?” Fundy says after a moment of steady blinking from 5up, “Not about the evacuation. We’re already scouting below, but- what if the others don’t come back? Will and Tubbo and Phil…”

“And Techno, Quackity, Tommy,” 5up agrees, setting a hand on Fundy’s back to rub comforting circles, “Trust your friends. They trust you.”

  
  


Fundy groans, long, loud, and tips himself sideways to lean against 5up’s shoulder. 5up laughs softly in return and loops an arm around him,

  
  


“Anyway, I’m here to help.”

“How _did_ you know I’d need help? How’d you get here?”

  
  


5up hums as he thinks, tucking Fundy’s head under his chin and pulling his his goggles up from his eyes,

  
  


“Mostly a secret,” He offers, “But Callahan was involved.”

  
He feels Fundy tense under him, and squeezes reassuringly,

  
  


“Just Callahan. Not the rest.”

“Do they know where L’Manberg is? Where _George_ is?” Fundy asks, unmoving, and 5up frowns slightly above him, silent for too long. Fundy already knows the answer before it comes.

“He… he does. Callahan. But I don’t think- not where George is, at least.”

  
Fundy sighs, closing his eyes under the shadow of his hands, and 5up’s thumb rubs a rhythm against his jacket, across the shoulder. They sit there a little longer, silent and revelling in the tragedy of their reunion, before Fundy straightens and stands, offering his hand to 5up to pull him to his feet. 

  
“Ready to go?” 5up asks, falling into step beside Fundy, who nods,

“Yeah, let’s go.”

  
  
  


On the other side of the town, Ranboo swirls in front of the door to Quackity and Karl’s house for ten, fifteen seconds before he slowly begins to rebuild himself, brick by brick. As soon as he has the capability, he’s rapping on the wood and watching the purple-and-green paint of the design on the front peel off under his touch. It’s a few seconds before the door is pulled open rapidly, Karl swims in his vision wide-eyed and in a thick hoodie, bag strung over his shoulder and leather armor peeking out in his neckline. Still, he looks surprised to see Ranboo stood, leaning against his doorframe trying to focus his gaze.

  
  


“Oh,” says Karl, reaching out to straighten Ranboo’s cloak, “God. Are you okay?”

“Quackity is dead and we need you for a spell.” Ranboo says, and watches Karl blanche. He blinks, and a few seconds later, the realisation of why saying that is a bad idea trickles into his brain.

“Alex is dead?”

“Just for a bit!” Ranboo assures, “They’re gonna resurrect him! But right now he is… uh…” Ranboo thinks back to the way they’d described what happened to Quackity, eyes shifting, and Karl shivers, face scrunching up as he tries not to cry.

  
Sure, when they’d started out, his and Quackity’s marriage had just been for the official green card. They were just two bros, getting Karl a visa despite the fact he’d lived in El Rapids for years. But over time- well, it’s hard to be literally married to a man as funny and sweet as Quackity without falling for him, at least a little.

He remembers the first night they’d slept in the same bed, when he’d crawled up in the middle of the night after a nightmare and went to be sick, and when he’d come back to the twin room, Quackity was sitting upright rubbing his eyes.

 _‘Another?’_ The memory of his voice echoes in Karl’s ears, and the memory of his nausea as he’d nodded. Then Quackity had offered out his arms, and who was Karl to resist the warmth and comfort of someone he loves after another vision of watching everyone die again and again. 

That had been the beginning.

Ranboo is reaching out to set a hand on his wrist, and for a moment, Karl flinches. Ranboo stops and looks up at him, or more accurately, at a point about six inches from his head. 

“They really do need you.” He says, trying to keep his voice steady. Karl takes a breath that trembles in his chest, mind rolling with memories of himself and Quackity, every softly dropped first name, every _baby boy,_ every touch, every laugh. Then something audibly clicks, and all the rungs fall into line on the ladder; he has to go, he has to do what he’s asked. If he doesn’t protect the others, they can’t resurrect Quackity, right?

He grasps Ranboo’s sleeve, not his wrist, pulls him over the threshold,

“You’re having something to eat and drink first.”

Ranboo makes a plaintive noise, but does not have the energy to argue. Much like Wilbur barely an hour and a half beforehand, Karl manhandles the younger man into a chair and tells him firmly to sit before he goes off in search of treats both delicious and magical.

They have the chews for nights like this, where magic is necessary and sleep is too far out of reach. They’re honey lemon flavoured, with a liquid core of infused actual honey that shimmers with cinnamon-bright speckles when spread over skin the way it tends to after the first bite. They’re expensive to make and so precious, but able to give a burst of energy to ride over the line when necessary.

He picks up three despite only one being necessary, tucks two into a little cloth bundle in his pocket- someone will need them- and murmurs words over quick-drawn symbols with his fingers, thumb of his left hand smearing a streak of red phosphorus across his palm. It’s a small spell, designed just to heat, and it’s something he uses frequently when he can’t be bothered waiting for the water or milk to boil.

He returns to Ranboo with tea and a couple of cookies from earlier in the day, a baking project full of love and laughter with Quackity hindering more than helping. And of course the candy, which he sets on the opposite side to the actual food and drink. 

“Take that last,” he warns, and Ranboo blinks at it a few times before recognising it, but he knows better now than to disagree with the demand it’s taken at all.

He eats and drinks quickly, but not hastily. He intersperses bites of the cookies with long draughts of tea, surprised to find how parched he is. The tea isn’t his favourite- he heavily prefers things with a lot of sugar- but it’s a liquid that has been freely offered to him with the intention to care for him. So he doesn’t complain; he wouldn’t have the energy to do so anyway.

Once the cookies and tea are gone, Karl takes the plate and mug from his side and returns them to the kitchen, gesturing with his chin toward the candy.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Ranboo waits until he’s out of the room before he pops it in his mouth.

It tastes good, a major improvement from the first time they’d all made these things and they’d tasted like burnt grass and bitterness. The first bite sends a gush of gooey liquid through his mouth, and he winces as the magic laced within thrums through his body and takes away that edge of exhaustion, his next breath coming quick and hot and excited, though he knows it’s all smoke and mirrors. He’s physically still just as exhausted. He just isn’t _feeling_ it anymore, which is what makes these things so dangerous. They’re more for emergencies than anything, and damn if this doesn’t constitute an emergency.

When Karl returns, Ranboo is stood straight and bright-eyed but serious, hand extended and a swipe of cinnamon-speckled honey across his lower lip. And Karl doesn’t speak, just extends a hand and clasps Ranboo’s wrist, closing his eyes as the two of them burst into purple mist and whirl away back toward the Badlands, curling under 5up and Fundy’s feet as they pass in a farewell.

  
  


Sweeping back across the ruined fields of the Badlands, Phil has laid out in the grass on his back, catching his breath, Techno’s cape swooped over him like a blanket and Tommy’s balled up under his head as a pillow. Tommy may be what they tend to call a rotisserie shithead, but his strength is in how deeply he cares and loves the people around him. 

Tubbo is sat at his side as the rest of the party gathers themselves to move up the hill for Quackity’s resurrection, fiddling with something or other mechanical in his hands, chewing his tongue in concentration. Phil doesn’t turn to look at him, but does squint to watch from the corner of his eye.

  
  


“You good, pal?” He asks, exhausted, but unable to shuck the coat of responsibility. Tubbo nods,

“Yeah, I’m fine. I mean- this all kind of sucks, but I’m okay.”

“You’re not going for Q’s resurrection?”

“I’ll be there,” Tubbo assures, “I just- I’m waiting. I’ll be there when he wakes up, though.”

“You’re not giving an offering?” Phil watches the muted way he begins fiddling with one specific plate, like his thoughts are no longer on the gadget in his hands.

“Well, resurrections are hard. I guess- I mean, Karl and Sapnap’ll be doing the offerings, right?”

“There’s still a third spot, though,” Phil waves a hand, “Bad, Skeppy, and Puffy are busy. Techno doesn’t do feelings. George and Dream are casting. Besides, even if they weren’t preoccupied, you’re still his friend.”

“Am I?” Tubbo asks, and immediately regrets it, folding in on himself. Silence hits. Phil pulls himself upright to stare, and Tubbo deliberately keeps his gaze downcast, focused on the metal plates in hand. Phil blinks a few times, letting the words settle in and picking his own carefully.

“Is it- is it just Q?”

  
Another pause, and Phil can see Tubbo’s shoulders draw as he tries to prepare himself to lie, but they slump before long. He shakes his head.

  
“No. It’s… everyone. Tommy, Techno, Ranboo… it’s okay, though! I don’t mind.” The tears Phil sees falling belie the words.

“Even me?” Phil asks, and Tubbo swallows, unable to speak. He just nods, and Phil swears he feels his heart break.

  
He shifts, swooping a wing around Tubbo to pull him in, tucking him against Phil’s shoulder against the down in his underwing. Tubbo sniffles a little.

  
“Mate…” Phil tries to pick out what he’s trying to say, frowning, “You’re- I don’t think you understand how important you are. To any of us, but we’re talking about Q right now. He cares so much about you- we all do.”

“You don’t know that,” Tubbo looks up at the hill, where they can just about make out Tommy’s silhouette with fire blazing at the end of his sword, “You don’t know what they really think.”

“Alright, fair,” Phil concedes, “I don’t _know._ But I like to think I’ve known ‘em all long enough that I can fairly accurately _guess._ And I know what I feel like- shit, Tubbo, you’re basically my _son._ I love you.”

  
Tubbo nods again, drawing his knees up to his chest,

  
  


“I know, I guess- I think I know it from you better than anyone else. Even Tommy…”

“He’d die for you,” Phil says without a breath of hesitation, “He’s a shithead, and he’s brash, and he’s- he’s Tommy. But he’d give his life for yours in a heartbeat. Even I’d have to think.”

  
That brings a smile to Tubbo’s face. Something about the aspect of honesty in the last part makes the whole thing hit true in his chest, and the breath he takes feels less strained, less burning. Phil’s wing flexes around him.

  
“You should make an offering for Quackity,” he says, and he’s not looking at Tubbo anymore. There’s something comforting in having no eyes on him.

“Why? Even if he thinks I’m his friend, what difference will it make? Compared to Karl and Sapnap?”

  
Phil heaves a sigh,

  
  


“Just ‘cause I use romantic attachment more, doesn’t mean it’s worth less to be platonic. It’s just love in a different way. They’re just as important as one another.”

“He’s _literally married_ to Karl, though.” Tubbo points out, “How is that not more important?”

“God you’re difficult,” Phil says, but there’s affection in it, and the way his wing shifts around Tubbo offsets the blow, “Maybe it is, in some ways. But there’s ways that platonic friends are more important than the marriage, too. It’s all balance, Tubbo, and you _are_ important to him- besides, you know how resurrections are. It’s all well and good to have two anchors in that kind of love, but he needs more than just that. He needs family, friends, something else to help navigate.”

  
Tubbo closes his eyes, mind questing out toward the thin grey line that separates life and death, searching along its boundary as though looking for Quackity. Phil shoves his shoulder.

  
  


“Mind you don’t lose yourself.”

“Sorry,” Tubbo apologises, but stands with faint frost flaking away, “I think you’re right. I’m- I’m gonna-”

“Go on,” Phil assures, “I’m here when you’re done.”

“Thanks, Phil,” Tubbo blinks down at him, swiping the back of his hand under his eye to wipe the tears there away. Phil smiles back at him and lays back down, pulling Techno’s cloak over himself, as Tubbo takes off up the hill.

  
He’s barely been laid down five seconds before another shape is looming over him, wide eyes mismatched and unnaturally bright.

  
  


“Hi, Phil!” Ranboo chirrups, purple mist still settling around him, “Where’s Wilbur?”

“Q’s res- uh-” Phil tilts his head back to catch sight of Karl, fiddling with the sleeves of his hoodie. Karl catches his gaze and gives a small smile, a wave,

“I already know.”

“My mouth is infinitely massive,” Ranboo adds with a smile, and Phil returns it, albeit nervously,

“Top of the hill, Quackity’s resurrection. Karl, I’m under strict orders to keep you away.”

“You’re not going to though, right?”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” Phil’s smile is bitter at the edges, “But you should know before you get up there that they uh… there’s not much of Quackity left.”

  
He hates the way Karl’s face screws up and he shifts from pale to flushed with the effort of not crying. Ranboo straightens from Phil to head to Karl, awkwardly pulling him into a hug. Karl reciprocates it quickly, though not without confusion. Ranboo blinks at the expression on Karl’s face as he steps back, and waves a hand in Phil’s direction,

  
“Phil would’ve, but he’s tired.”

“Thanks, Ranboo,” Phil says from the floor, and at least that brings a brief smile to Karl’s face. Raboo pats Karl’s shoulder,

“Off we go then?”

“Yeah. See you soon, Phil,” Karl waves, and Phil wiggles his fingers right back, closing his eyes to the background noise of Ranboo and Karl trudging off uphill.

  
  


Atop the hill, Tommy holds his sword aloft like a torch, the minor spell for the flame glittering in the runes down the side. As George and Dream are collecting the remains of Quackity into a vaguely humanoid shape, the rest of them are searching through the wreckage. Techno makes the mistake of touching one of the crescents of black ooze, and withdraws his hand hissing in pain. Still, he looks plaintively at the mangled remains of his sword hilt about a foot and a half in. The emergency foothold had been necessary, no doubt, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. 

“You okay, Techno?” Tommy comes up beside him as Techno is shaking his hand off, wincing.

“Yeah, I’m just a fool,” Techno squints at his hand, though the acid burn doesn’t seem to be too bad, at least. His other hand strays up to run through his shorn hair, and Tommy watches him with bitten concern. Techno catches his expression out of the corner of his eye and turns, blank-faced. They stare at one another for a few moments, silent wonder of who will blink first. It turns out to be Tommy, turning away,

“Right,” he says, “Yeah, ‘course you are. Idiot.” It’s none of his usual bravado, but Techno gives a snort of a laugh anyway. They don’t push past that, though, and Tommy wanders over to stand beside Sapnap, who has managed to resheath his sword hollowly, staring at the gruesome remains of Quackity as George and Dream debate over whether a shard of bone is from the arm or the leg. The firelight licks across Sapnap’s face, and Tommy opens his mouth to speak, then decides against it. Instead he stands in silence, waiting. Tubbo comes up behind them in short order, joining them in line. Tommy switches hands on his sword and slings his newly freed one around Tubbo’s shoulders.

Karl and Ranboo come up the hill shortly after, drawing Wilbur’s attention,

  
  


“Karl! Shit, don’t look-”

  
  


It’s too late, though. Karl’s eyes are so wide, they’re almost perfectly circular, staring at the crushed remains of his husband. Sapnap turns quickly, crossing the distance in a few fast strides to bundle Karl into a hug that puts his body in line of sight, blocking it from Karl’s view. It takes a moment for Karl to unfreeze, but when he does, he just starts _bawling._ Sapnap’s grip tightens around him, and the remainder of the group stands in silence, clueless as to what would be the right thing to say here.

Eventually, Karl peels from Sapnap’s shoulder enough to prop his chin there instead, turning both of them in a short shuffle so he can look at Wilbur, whose expression is one of horrible guilt. 

“Do we need to do that spell now, or after Alex’s resurrection?”

  
Wilbur looks to Dream, who grimaces. He shakes his head, and Wilbur sighs,

  
  


“Now, we shouldn’t risk waiting longer.”

“Okay.” Karl steps back from Sapnap’s hug, but does glance up at him, “Would you stay close?”

“‘Course,” Sapnap replies, though it’s more a hoarse whisper, “Anything you need.”

  
He follows Karl close as Wilbur and he meet and begin plotting out runes and materials. After a few minutes of back and forth with Sapnap at Karl’s shoulder, Wilbur frowns and looks over to George and Dream,

  
“Hey, Dream, we’re probably going to need you for this.”

  
George frowns, tugging at the sleeve of his overcoat to get Dream’s attention,

  
  


“Are you going to be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Dream promises, shifting down to kiss George’s temple before ghosting off toward the time lock spell area, stepping across the chalk runes. They’re just a draft, but Dream looks them over anyway, and shuffles over to a point near the west anchor. 

“You’re gonna need another freeze symbol here,” he points, tracing the shape, and Wilbur rolls his eyes,

“They’re just a _draft,_ Dream.”

“Right, and I’m just correcting them. What’s the plan?”

“I know how to do my runes.” Wilbur snarks back, then nods to Karl, “You’ll conduit magic into Karl, he’ll open the loom, and I’ll put the locks in place. He won’t be able to keep it open long enough without you, and I can’t put the locks in place if he’s not here to have the loom open.”

“Ah, teamwork,” Dream laments, “What materials are you using?”

“Uh,” says Wilbur at about the same time Karl says, 

“Working on it. I’m thinking- you said this is to keep out a specific threat, Wilbur?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m locking the whole thing down…”

“Doesn’t matter. So here’s my thoughts; dill weed, fern, tansy…”

“Really centred around waging a war there, huh?” Wilbur approaches as Karl sorts through his stock, and he finds a face pulled at him in return,

“I’m not a druid, I don’t do plants.”

“Then don’t do plants! I don’t need ‘em, _you_ do.”

“Not all of us were born bards!” Karl protests, flushing, and when he looks up, it’s to meet a small sly smile from Wilbur and the twist of knowing he’s just fucking around. Anxiety he hadn’t realised was there melts from Karl, and Sapnap’s hand on his shoulder helps to alleviate it.

“I thought your ideas were pretty good,” Sapnap says quietly, and Karl flashes a brief, bright smile over his shoulder.

“Alright, if you want something I know better- obsidian arrowheads will help with direction and flow, and they work well for shielding magic. And, um… sand, too, I think. Sand is a good thing to draw with, anyway, and if we use quartz sand- I have some of that, don’t look at me that way. It’s, like… a staple for time magic.” The latter comes at Wilbur’s rumpled nose and dubious expression, but he seems to acquiesce.

“If we want to go really hard, I’d need bells for this,” Wilbur looks over the runes, “But I don’t know if i have time.”

“Punz keeps a set of handbells,” Sapnap offers, “He doesn’t live too far.”

“I can go!” Ranboo offers, breaking from his rapidfire series of rock-paper-scissors games with Tubbo, winning once more. Tubbo grumbles at this.

“You’re probably gonna have to pay him to borrow them,” Sapnap turns from Karl, taking a breath and closing his eyes, “I have something he’s been after for a while.”

  
  


Before Ranboo can ask _what,_ Sapnap re-summons his wings, twitching in pain at the ruined edge of one, the same as earlier. Still, he pulls them around himself and sinks a hand into the feathers- where they initially appear to be wings of radiant flame, up close, it’s visible that they’re overlapping, smooth, long feathers with waves along the length. There are also a series of shorter feathers with more intricate ends, almost the same in aesthetic as a peacocks, with eye-like gold-and-red patterns and trailing barbs. It’s one of these prettier feathers that Sapnap plucks carefully with a little wince, dismissing the wings shortly after. He offers the feather out to Ranboo, 

  
  


“Tell him it’s from me.”

“This is a phoenix feather,” Ranboo takes it, and Sapnap nods tersely.

“He’s been trying to bribe me for one for years and I keep saying no. Mostly because it’s funny to watch him get frustrated. But this seems worth it.”

  
Ranboo hums and dissipates on the wind, leaving the group behind to stare at his empty spot. Karl steps up to lean into Sapnap’s side, and finds an arm around his shoulders.

  
“I have steadier hands than you,” Wilbur says to Karl after a moment of eyeing him, “Let me do the runes.”

“You only have one hand,” Karl points out, nodding at the sling. Wilbur looks at it, mildly surprised, as though he’d forgotten he had it on. Then he looks back.

“I’ll still be faster.”

  
  


Karl wants to argue, but the weight of Sapnap’s arm around him is heavy in the way of words unspoken, and when he looks back to meet Wilbur’s eyes, he knows that this was the intention behind the offer. To give a moment of space for them in this horribly cramped time, everything crushed so close together. Dream has temporarily abandoned them to go back to George, Techno is watching Tommy and Tubbo bickering over who gets to hold the torch, and Wilbur’s hand is outstretched for the quartz sand.

Karl pulls the glass jar from his bag and hands it over. Wilbur flashes him a smile.

  
  


“Thank you. Fuck off, give me some space.” And he turns away, leaving Karl with a reluctant lick of gratitude for the excuse to draw Sapnap away from the others to the far side, with a swathe of silent space between them and any curious ears.

  
Karl turns to face Sapnap.

  
  


“Are you okay?”

  
Of _course_ that’s the first thing out of his mouth, and in all honesty- no. Sapnap _isn’t_ okay, even aside from literally watching Quackity get turned into a fine red mist, there’s so much guilt boiling in his chest that he’s barely been able to think. 

He doesn’t answer, and Karl, tentatively, sets a hand on his arm,

  
“It’s okay,” he says, and his voice is quiet, “He knew- when he said goodbye, he knew he was going to die. I- I knew there was a chance he wouldn’t come back at all.”

“That’s not- I mean, yeah. He died _saving my life,_ I’m- everything is a mess.” Sapnap buries his face in his palm, tears burning unshed in his eyes. Karl rubs his arm as soothingly as he can,

“Tell me what happened?”

  
Sapnap does. It comes out of him in a deluge of rising pitch and volume, choked-out tears of the first time Quackity caught him falling, stuttering over that last moment and the look in his eyes. But the point he comes back to, turning the clock back again, is after he’d pulled Quackity back from the claws that first time, set the smaller man behind him and that brief moment. Where the monster hadn’t existed, and only his guilt and fear had, when Quackity had caught his hand and laced their fingers.

That’s where the guilt of the night crushes him, and he collapses down to his knees, half-wailing the last few words as Karl follows, kneeling beside him in the churned mud.

Karl pulls him into a hug,

  
“ _That’s_ what’s hurting you? Holding his _hand?_ ”

“Not- it’s- it’s how I feel,” Sapnap curls against Karl in a way that makes him feel so small, and so safe in warm arms. 

“You nimrod,” it comes over a half-laugh, genuine amusement but no mirth, “We know! We’ve known for ages, actually- we’ve been talking about it a lot. Especially recently.”

  
  


Sapnap is quiet, listening with hope on hope and shattered soul, deadly still but for his slamming heartbeat in his chest and throat.

  
  


“This isn’t the… best way, to bring it up, but- yeah. We’ve been talking about it. You think we haven’t noticed? You think we don’t feel the same?”

  
Sapnap tries to speak and instead just hiccups dumbly, making Karl roll his eyes slightly, squeezing him tighter,

  
“That’s a conversation for after he’s back. But, man, you don’t need to feel bad. Not about that, not about any of this. Alex is a big boy, he makes his own choices, and he decided that he’d rather your life than his. And we’re still going to bring him back,” the last as Sapnap tenses against him, and Karl affectionately nuzzles into the top of his hair, embrace bone-crushing and half-desperate.

“I do, though. I can’t help it.”

“That’s fine,” Karl assures, “You don’t control that. I just want you to know you don’t _need_ to. That there’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

  
And that helps. It doesn’t make the feeling any less real, it doesn’t stop the guilt being there, but there’s a shift of the weight from upsetting people he loves to upsetting himself, a different personal burden that seems easier to haul. 

They sit there a little longer in quiet embrace, until Wilbur calls them over and they unwind from one another to do so. Dream joins them, offering his hand out to Karl. Sapnap hesitates before he steps back, giving Karl’s shoulder one last reassuring squeeze and heading clear of the wide circle of runes in quartz sand.

Despite Wilbur’s lack of hands, the runes are actually drawn out very deftly, interspersed with five or six obsidian arrowheads that denote the flow of magic from symbol to symbol. Despite having made fun of Karl for it, Wilbur has settled a handful of tansies and some dill in the cut and freeze runes. 

  
“We’re just waiting on the bells.” Wilbur says, gesturing to Dream’s outstretched hand, “You might want to put that down.”

“So I have time to look after George?” Dream does as he’s bidden regardless, and Wilbur rolls his eyes,

“Yes, you have time to look after George.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” George protests from his spot about fifteen feet away, and Dream chuckles,

“He’s tired.”

“ _I’m fine!_ ” George half-yells, and Dream disappears to return to his side. Karl and Wilbur watch them for a while, Dream being sickeningly soft in every gentle touch and the kisses he peppers to the top of George’s head.

  
  


They are, finally, thankfully, interrupted by Ranboo re-materialising, clad in a similar set of armor to Dream’s ruined ceramic scale mail, with a bandolier of bells buckled around his chest. He wanders brightly toward the ritual circle, slipping the bandolier over his head to hand over to Wilbur whilst he speaks over his shoulder to Sapnap,

  
  


“Punz said thank you and also that he’ll drop by your house tomorrow to check on you,” he says, too bright for the situation. Sapnap squints at him, then drags his eyes to Karl. Karl visibly shrinks under the scrutiny.

“What did you feed him?” Sapnap half-demands, but it has no bite behind it.

“You know what,” Karl replies, and turns away to an exasperated laugh from Sapnap.

“Ready, then?” Wilbur asks as he secures the bandolier and picks out the smallest and third largest. Karl nods, and Wilbur turns toward Dream,  
“We’re ready!”

“Coming!” Dream calls in return, and comes to Karl’s side a few moments later, hand outstretched. Karl takes it, and nods at Wilbur, the final signal they need.

The first bell chime rings out over soft murmurs from Karl as his eyes glass over, lime green light spiralling from his clasped hand with Dream and flowing through his body into the ground in licks of purple and jade green, a dual tone of magic so rare to find. It’s met in waves by mustard yellow from the peals of the bells, hissing as it burns along the sand like fire and with a gasp, Karl steps out across the spiralling bridge made by the magic, into the void. He follows the jade green along the floor of oblivion and lilac, one foot in front of the other with strength borrowed from Dream’s wellspring, eyes ahead of him with the sound of bells in his ears ringing like tinnitus. He glances over his shoulder in the space and finds Wilbur following, careful to tread in his footsteps.

They walk for what feels like years, closer and closer to the centre of the spiral where the door to the loom awaits them, each step growing more weighted and each toll of the bells growing louder. Then they meet it, cool, plain oak against Karl’s palm with a knob of shining brass that he slips down and turns, glancing over his shoulder for Wilbur’s assurance that he’s ready. He receives it, and throws the door open.

Karl hates the loom. It’s something born and sewn into his veins, the thousand threads of time that he can trace along, losing himself more and more the longer he stares. There are weaves in every direction, no such thing as linear time, and if he spends too much time here then he’ll surely mix the worlds up in awful ways. He closes his eyes, squeezes them tight, and feels Wilbur brush past to step into the loom.

The threads are more familiar to Wilbur. He rarely sees the loom laid out like this, only ever sees it from a spot within, where he sees all the threads that spiral out from his own moment. Still, this distant familiarity makes it easier as he sets the sound of the bells aside and murmurs to a shouting song, watching ice coalesce on the threads. More, and more, and he sees a streak of writhing lime and black shoot down toward the spot he’s protecting and his voice breaks over the last few notes but he doesn’t dare close his eyes.

The streak meets the frost and explodes like a firework, fading out even from the line it had just made. It leaves the plain time behind, no sign left.

_It worked._

He steps back through the door, catching Karl’s elbow as he lets the door swing closed behind him, and the two of them all but run the years back to the entrance, coughing as they both step from the jade spiral in the void into the real world. The runes have melted away into a layer of thin glass, the obsidian melted in place. Karl falls to his knees to catch his breath, and Wilbur collapses fully, unconscious before he hits the floor. The glass under the two of them does not shatter.

Dream lets go of Karl’s hand as he buckles, but drops to kneel beside him almost immediately. Sapnap comes in just behind, and on the other side of the glass circle, Tommy picks over the lines with surprising grace for his haste, skidding to a stop beside Wilbur and picking him from the grass and glass.

  
  


“Will?” It’s soft, afraid, the facet he often hides even in the darkest nights. He scoops his almost-brother up, pulled in against him as he studies. There’s no visual damage, at least, but he’s out cold. His breath is steady, only slightly laboured, but that doesn’t stop Tommy’s half-panic and worry. Techno and Tubbo stand with their toes barely over the edge of the outer ring of glass.

“Bring him here,” Techno says, though it sounds more like a demand. Tommy shakes his head, fighting to keep his breath from burning in his lungs,

“No, I- I’ve got him.” He doesn’t really want to hand Wilbur off. When he’s holding the unconscious man, he can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the thrum of a heartbeat through the back of his ribs pressed against Tommy’s forearm.

It’s such a simple moment in a place where panic should not live. There is no threat left, with the loom sealed off and the monster dead, but the fear crawling up in Tommy’s throat says otherwise. Why is he afraid now, where earlier he’d laughed in the face of doom? He clings to Wilbur and refuses to look away until he hears the soft crunch of thin glass underfoot. Techno comes to his side and crouches, hands on Wilbur to take him and Tommy scrabbles handfuls of Wilbur’s sweater, protesting loudly. Techno sighs as he stands, Wilbur in arm, and looses one hand to tug Tommy to his feet by the scruff, too. Tubbo waits anxiously on the sideline.

  
“Give me your hand,” Techno demands, and despite his panic, Tommy presses his wrist into Techno’s grip. Techno guides his palm to set on Wilbur’s chest, where the rhythmic rise and fall is clearly felt, and that seems to soothe Tommy somewhat. It’s an awkward way to walk, with Tommy point blank refusing to move his hand from Wilbur’s chest, but Techno can be patient when time demands it. They exit the glass circle and Tubbo comes to Tommy’s other side, linking their arms in a way that would seem too jovial if it were anyone but them. But it’s Tommy and Tubbo, and the gesture isn’t jovial, it’s grave and sympathetic, a clear indication of understanding and reassurance. A silent _I’m here, you’re not alone,_ something Tubbo seems to be adept at. 

The trio drops aside to settle Wilbur in a more safe part of the grass, Ranboo offering up his borrowed coat to help keep him warm.

Dream kneels beside Karl with a hand on his shoulder, pattering with his fingertips in the same way George does to him when he’s anxious or sad.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Karl huffs for breath, leaning into Sapnap as he comes to his side. Dream flashes him a brief, sympathetic smile.

“Ready for the resurrection?”

“Give me five minutes,” Karl is catching his breath now, but Sapnap is still holding most of his weight. He all but scoops Karl into his lap as he sits, cracking the glass under him and not giving a single shit about it. Dream gives Karl one last pat on the shoulder and heads off back toward George, who greets him with open arms and an embrace. Sapnap watches them go, then turns his attention back to Karl, curled in on himself and seeming so small against his shoulder.

“You did so well,” he says, and his voice is quiet. Karl smiles, but does not speak, so Sapnap fills the silence,  
“It looks so strange from the outside, you know. Just gestures and words I don’t understand. You sort of disappear into the light, and there’s a lot of spirals and fire. Floating shapes, too.”

“Really?” Karl asks, “I’ve never thought about it from the outside. It’s just a path on the inside. A path, a door, and trying to remember who I am.”

Sapnap’s hands squeeze gently against him, and Karl lets out a puff of breath. It’s easy to relax into Sapnap’s arms, in the same way it’s easy to melt into Quackity’s bed at night. It feels safe here, warm and cosy and happy. It’s a moment of refuge against the awful world around them, but neither of them can quite shake the feeling that it would be so much better with Quackity here too.

A few minutes pass of Sapnap murmuring quietly into his hair, not a lot of words but copious amounts of love and comfort, until Karl’s hand finds Sapnap’s thigh and squishes gently.

“We should go.”

“Yeah,” Sapnap says quietly, and the two of them climb up to head over to where George is stood trying to look angry about the fact that Dream is slumped against his back, arms looped around his shoulders and chin resting atop his head. The effectiveness of the faux anger is completely destroyed by the fact he has one hand with his fingers threaded through Dream’s, and he’s flushing at the soft purrs rumbling against his back. Sapnap smiles at the sight, a strong thread of relief and genuine pride in them for the interaction. Maybe they’ve finally figured at least some of their shit out. It’s about goddamn time.

“You’re ready?” George asks, tugging his hand from Dreams to a whine from the taller man, and Karl nods,

“Y-yeah.” Karl answers, though he sounds tentative. Sapnap takes his hand. George gives what he hopes is a sympathetic smile, and glances over to Tubbo and company.

  
  


Tubbo is leaning up against Tommy, set his back against Tommy’s shoulder. To an untrained eye, it would seem like he isn’t paying attention, but much like the linked arms, it’s just _Tubbo._ He knows how Tommy works, knows that there are different ways to cling and the ways that won’t help right now. The fact is that he’s touching him, grounding him, without drawing attention to the emotional wounds that he knows his brother won’t want to keep open to the air. 

  
  


“Tubbo, you ready?” George calls over, and Tubbo straightens, waving,

“Coming!” He calls before turning quickly back to Tommy. He doesn’t get to ask if the latter is okay before he’s meeting a smile, strained but genuine.

“I’ll be fine, go on.”

  
  


Tubbo pauses to squeeze Tommy’s shoulder.

  
  


“Thanks, big man.”

And off he goes. He heads over to join them all by Quackity’s mushed corpse, stepping beside Karl to bump his shoulder into Karl’s arm in a gesture of pity and reassurance. George studies the three of them.

  
  


“I think we should sandwich it,” he says, gesturing to Tubbo, “You second. Dunno whether to put Karl or Sap third, though…”

“Sapnap,” Karl speaks up before Sapnap can, “He should go last. I should be first.”

“You sure?” Sapnap squeezes his hand with the question, “He is your husband…”

“Yeah, and I know him,” Karl smiles, aching but determined, “You should go last.”

  
A pause, as Sapnap studies Karl’s eyes, then nods.

  
  


“Alright.”

  
  


George begins setting out his supplies, handing the red thread over to Karl before he pauses and squints,

  
  


“Just checking… that is the right one, yeah? That’s red?”

“This is red,” Karl confirms, and George hums before he returns to his supplies. He hands off to Dream the same way he always does when he’s working out castings, content now with the way Dream curls around him, clinging, and between items nosing against the side of George’s head. He’s always so clingy when he gets tired, though it’s rare he’s tired at all. And maybe he’s clingy all the time, but he’s worse when he’s wrung out.

George isn’t going to deny him this small comfort though, not when he’s just died and watched himself kill people he loves. He’s focused enough on his supplies that he barely notices. 

  
  


“Hold,” George demands, and Dream does so obediently, taking the rose delicately along with the mistletoe.

“Love you,” Dream murmurs, barely awake at this point, and George gives a soft snort of laughter,

“I know, you idiot.” He withdraws one of the largest diamonds, silently thanking Phil for being so prepared. Dream whines, and George rolls his eyes.

“Say it back,” Dream draws out the _a_ in _back,_ “Tell me you love me!”

  
  


George’s hands stutter over the supplies. He wants to, really, but when he says it, he wants to mean it. Not just casually, but with his whole chest.

  
  


“Later,” he says, and it’s a quiet promise. He feels Dream smile, sated by the softness in George’s voice. He takes the offered handful of forget-me-nots without protest, settling his chin on George’s shoulder.

  
Tubbo leans in toward Karl.

  
  


“This is gross.” He says, face scrumpled up, though it isn’t said with malice and Karl laughs at the statement,

“Yeah, but they’re allowed to be sappy after tonight.”

“Fair, I guess,” Tubbo can’t fight the small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth, and George’s focus shifts. He’s tired, and trying to run through floriography in his head gets harder every second, especially with a sleepy Dream tucked against his back.

“How deft are your hands feeling?” George asks Dream, who hums,

“I have dextrous fingers.”

“Alright. Here, hand me all that,” and he takes the supplies Dream currently holds and sets them aside, handing him instead a small bunch of marigolds.  
“Make a crown.” He instructs, and Dream begins weaving,

“Who’s it for?”

“Tubbo.”

  
Dream groans as he stands up, but makes his way over to Tubbo to get a general measurement of how big the crown needs to be, leaving George to sort through supplies. Gold will probably be necessary for this, it’s a fair guess to think that Quackity’s brain will be fucked up when he’s put back together. Valerian for Tubbo and violets for Karl, but finding something for Sapnap is proving a challenge. He doesn’t want to sell Sapnap, of all people, short. 

He’s going to use spearmint for the scatter, he thinks, and likely a little rose quartz too. He glances over at Sapnap again, at the way he looks at Karl with such heartbreaking softness as Tubbo draws Karl’s attention to the little thing he’s been working on. It turns out to be an arcanomechanical dragon, not fully functional right now, but he’s displaying the progress he’s made.

George decides on honeysuckle for Sapnap. Pink honeysuckle, he thinks, instead of yellow. He searches through the supplies and finds a branch, murmuring quiet words to revitalise it. He sets it aside in the pile and works on binding the totem together instead, rose and mistletoe with bursts of forget-me-not worked in. He binds it with silver the same way he knows work and fastens the diamond in the heart of it, setting it aside before beginning work on the rune paste.

Gold and silver dust, then diamond dust thrown in because of course. He’s pretty sure he has some peacock feathers in his bag that would work, and Niki’s holy water will likely help. Honey wouldn’t hurt, either. He’s pretty sure he has some crushed lapis lazuli in his bag somewhere… and it only takes him a few moments to find it. He makes short work of tipping the ingredients in together, gently trimming part of the “eye” from one of the peacock feathers. He still wants to add some kind of flower, though, so he plucks some of the forget-me-nots to add to the mix and crushes it all up with the glass rod. Dream returns back to him in short order, working on weaving more marigolds into the crown now he has a solid base for, laying out against George’s back to steal his warmth once more. George chuckles as Dream settles into position.

  
“Comfy?” He asks, and Dream hums contentedly.

“Yeah.”

  
That’s it. No elaboration. He’s just comfortable.

Soon, though, George finishes his prep and reaches a hand behind him to pet at Dream’s hair,

  
“Time to work.”

  
  


He’s met with a sigh, but once again, Dream peels away without argument. He places one last kiss to the top of George’s head, hands off the marigold crown to Tubbo, and stands patiently at Quackity’s side as he waits for George to finish writing out the runes.

Without a solid body to write on, George is restricted to scrawling in gently tipped liquid around Quackity’s remains. He chooses to put his northmark above Quackity’s head, not that he has much option with the inability to change the size of the rune circle.

Once all the resurrection runes are in place, he takes a breath. Offers his hand out to Dream.

  
“Ready?” He asks Karl, because Karl is first. And Karl nods at him, enthusiastic but afraid, stepping up the circle pretending he’s ready. Dream takes George’s hand, and the spell begins.

  
Seconds pass in time, breaths and words and hurting, light burning and seething out of George’s eyes and mouth. Dream pulls him in and holds him, waiting, eyes burning on Karl but unseeing as he lends himself entirely over to George’s will.

Karl kneels and hesitates before he slips his wedding ring off and sets it vaguely where Quackity’s chest should be in the shape of the pile.

  
“Hey,” His voice is quiet, a thrum of pain behind it, “I know, I guess, I’ve said it a thousand times. When we first got married, I think I loved you then too. I can tell you the exact moment I realised, though- after the nightmares, after all the thoughts about- about going back there. Being deported, being found. And you let me into your bed and I realised I loved you, then. I don’t want to lie to you and say I have no idea how to live without you, because I do- of course I do, we worked so hard to make this work, to make it healthy… but it would hurt. It would be agony, Alex, even when it gets better, when it hurts _less_ , it will still hurt. It won’t stop hurting. I’d get better at taking the pain, but it wouldn’t get better. And I wouldn’t stop loving you. So- so don’t leave me, please? I have so many plans for the future, and I want you with me in every single one.”  
There’s no hand to hold, no face to look upon and cry, just bone shards and broken wings, mush and blood and ruined cotton. Karl lets the tears flow anyway.

“I love you,” he says, and his voice doesn’t shake but it _aches,_ “Please don’t go.”

  
Twin trails of jade and violet pour from his fingertips, winding into the blue-green flame of George’s runes as it curls around his wedding ring and incinerates it, the offering taking with the sound of breaking hearts and broken sobs.

He comes away into Sapnap’s open, waiting arms, hiccuping sobs into the paladin’s shoulder as he’s held, and Tubbo, tentative, takes his place. The marigold crown seems so heavy on his head, and he frowns, closes his eyes as he stands at Quackity’s side.

  
“Hey, big Q,” he greets, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, “I- I really don’t know what I’m meant to say, here. I mean,” he laughs, awkward and broken, “Karl gave his _wedding ring,_ and I’m- what? Barely even a friend. But you mean a lot to me, whether- whether you feel the same or not. I have Tommy, and Wilbur, and Phil, but that’s not the same as you. They lie to me, sometimes. I swear they think I’m delicate- maybe I am? But you- you don’t. You treat me like a person, and you’re honest, but you’re not mean. I don’t always agree with the things you say, but that doesn’t mean I respect you, or your words, any less. I really don’t know what life would look like if you’re not there to make jokes and be smart, Q. Don’t really want to find out, if I’m honest. Do me a favour, will you? Don’t stay dead.”

  
His hands shift over himself quickly, blindly, until they hit metal and wood and he freezes.

  
“I don’t have a lot to give, but… I’ll give you my magic. I don’t know what else I can do to show you, even if you- even if I’m not _your_ friend, you’re mine. Always.”

  
He pulls the kalimba from its protective pouch and gives it one more plaintive look before he sets it on the pile of mush, watching it depress blood-soaked cotton for a split-second before a pyre of blue-green flame overtakes it and burns up, high and bright. Tubbo closes his eyes, but doesn’t move away until it’s all died down, when he steps back and finds Tommy waiting just behind Karl and Sapnap to take him into a harsh, warm hug.

It’s rare Tommy offers this kind of open, blatant affection. It’s not the way he shows love, but it’s not unknown for him to do so. Tubbo can’t even summon the energy to hug back, just lets himself be held tight and safe by his brother as Sapnap brushes his thumb one last time against Karl’s cheek and parts. Before he steps away, Karl catches his wrist and carefully, tentatively, ties the end of the red thread around Sapnap’s finger. He pulls a length out and ties it to himself, then hands the spool over. Sapnap doesn’t use his words to thank him, just blinks slow and quiet, and heads up to Quackity’s body. He cuts the thread and ties the end around the gifted totem, setting it on Quackity’s body as he pulls a rattling breath with the taste of blood on the air.

  
“Karl told me you’ve been talking,” Sapnap says, quietly, “I’m keeping this short, because I know you never listen.”  
  
The wings spread behind him, burning bright and a flurry of feathers. Sapnap puts a hand into the down of his wing and plucks a feather, then another, and another, wincing. He switches to the other side and does the same, repeating back and forth, until his wings are sparse in those patches and blood stains the remaining feathers. He sets the bundle on Quackity’s body, covering almost his whole chest area as he blinks tears out of his eyes.

  
“I’m not going to be emotional to your corpse, Q. I’ll do it when you’re back. Can’t organise a triad when one of you isn’t there, right? So be there, or be square. I’ll make your coffin a square. Don’t test me. Just fucking come back, you _idiot,_ ” and that’s where he breaks, doubling over the mush, “I don’t want to lose you before I even got to be _honest._ Before we got a chance to try. I know you’re stubborn, I know you want to do the exact opposite of what you’re told, but I’m not telling you to come back. I’m _begging._ Please. _Please._ Don’t leave me. Don’t leave _us.”_

There’s an anxious, pregnant pause where Sapnap stares at the feathers, the honeysuckle, tears in his eyes and waiting begging hoping. And just as he’s about to believe that his offering wasn’t enough, that _he_ wasn’t enough… the fire raises in criss-crossing lines, burning across Quackity’s body and taking with it the feathers and the totem, flitting down the red thread from Quackity to Sapnap to Karl and turning it to ash.

The heavy lifting is over. Sapnap stands and returns to Karl, who greets him the same way he had been greeted, taking him in his arms and holding him smooth and soft, whispering to him gentle words and affections that he takes numbly as he balls his fists in the fabric at Karl’s back.

  
  


“I love you,” he tells Karl hoarsely, and he _feels_ Karl smile against the crook of his neck.

“I know, nimrod. I love you too.”

  
  


Sapnap’s breath shudders in his throat but he feels safe here, and he waits for the completion of the spell behind him.

  
George and Dream plunge between worlds with breath caught in throats, searching for that line between life and death that they know uncomfortably well, by now. He traces the pathways in the constellations, leaving a trail of starlight like crumbs to lead them home.  
When they emerge into Death, the river is running cold around them and their eyes struggle in the dim light. They don’t speak to know that they’re listening more than looking, hoping to hear the faint flapping of wings somewhere in the distance.

It’s Dream that hears it, pulling on George’s essence in the direction he senses, leaving the thread-trail of starlight behind them.

They find it- him- quickly. A golden bird, small enough to fit in the palm of their hand, fluttering just above the surface of the water as though the icy river is sucking it in. George reaches out and catches him just as he’s about to go under, scooping him up and offering the threaded starlight out, tying it around Quackity’s leg.

  
“Ready to come back?” He asks, knowing the answer is yes. They would never have found him if he didn’t want to return. The bird fluffs up in his hand and takes hold of the thread in its beak, and so the three of them turn and head back into life, following the constellations home.

In life, the fire blazes and burns brighter every passing moment and finally overtakes the whole circle. Karl and Sapnap press their faces to one another’s shoulders to protect their eyes, and Tubbo turns away with Tommy.

The light clears as George’s body buckles and he hits the floor, and Quackity sits up gasping for air with his body restored.

Karl turns and looks, barely a split second before he’s rushing over and grabbing Quackity around the back of the neck and pulling him into a bruising kiss that Q reciprocates ferociously, fists balling in Karl’s hoodie as he pulls down.

They break apart only to gasp for air, and Quackity’s eyes stray to Sapnap, then past, to Tubbo.

  
“Do you have any spare clothes?” He asks Karl without taking his eyes off of Tubbo. Karl strips out of his hoodie, and George riffles in Phil’s bag a few feet away until he can throw a pair of soft linen leggings at Quackity’s head.

  
“Hey!” Techno protests, “Those are mine!”

“Mine now, bitch,” Quackity grins, pulling them on and Karl’s hoodie over his head. And then stands, wobbly on reformed legs, to walk straight past Karl and Sapnap. Tubbo stares as he approaches.

  
“Hey, big Q,” he says, nervousness in his voice.

  
Quackity pulls him into a crushing hug.

  
“You _are_ my friend,” he says, voice with a dangerous edge that warns Tubbo not to argue, “You _are_ my friend, and I care about you a whole _fucking_ lot. Don’t ever, _ever_ doubt that you’re my friend and that I care and that you’re so important to me, man.”

Tubbo makes a noise halfway between a hiccup and a whine, wrapping his arms around Quackity, too, and sniffling as he presses his face into Quackity’s shoulder. His wings are trapped under the hoodie rather uncomfortably, so he can’t pull them around Tubbo the way he really wants to, but he makes up for it by clinging harder.

“I’m sorry if I made you think we’re not friends,” Quackity says quietly, and Tubbo shakes his head,

“You didn’t. It’s just- it’s just how I think, sometimes.”

“We’ll find a way to teach it what’s right.” Quackity promises. He doesn’t let go of Tubbo until _Tubbo_ is drawing back and pulling away, until he makes that choice to break the connection. He steps back, and he’s smiling now, small and faint but there.

“Glad you’re back, big Q,” he says, and Quackity grins in reply,

“Glad to be back. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow,” Tubbo agrees, and Quackity steps away to return to Karl and Sapnap.

  
  


On the other side of the circle, Dream drops beside George, pulling him in,

  
“Are you okay?” He asks, half-panicked, “God.”

“I’ll live,” George wheezes, trying to catch his breath, “We knew it’d happen. You _are_ going to have to carry me.”

“Anywhere you ask,” Dream replies, and scoops him up, princess style, to a fit of wheezing laughter and coughing from George, who tucks his head into Dream’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

“Wake me when we get home. Promise.” It’s not a request, it’s a demand. Dream smiles and kisses his forehead, gently,

“Okay,” he says, voice soft, “I will.”

  
He paces over to Karl, Quackity, and Sapnap, cradling George in his arms. They’re having a hushed conversation as he approaches, and Sapnap turns to him with guilt in his eyes. He opens his mouth, and Dream gets to it before Sapnap can make himself feel bad.

  
“Sap, you know I love you. I love you so much. But do- do you think, tonight-” he glances down at George, who’s conked out against him now, “Could we have the house?”

  
Relief floods Sapnap that he wasn’t the one to suggest it, though he knows it’s partially for his sake that Dream suggested it to begin with,

  
“Yeah, that’s- I’ll be home tomorrow. I want _so many cuddles._ ”

  
  


Dream laughs, bright and wheezy and warm,

  
  


“All the cuddles you want.” He promises, and Sapnap grins. Dream shuffles up beside him to lean in and rest his forehead to Sapnap’s in a mirror of the way they used to. Sapnap’s hand finds the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and the breath they take is shared.

“Love you,” Dream says quietly, and Sapnap’s smile only brightens,

“Love you too.”

  
It doesn’t matter that it’s different to the way it’s said to Karl, or Q, or George. It’s sincere. It has meaning. Sapnap closes his eyes, and Dream steps back.

And in that moment of calm, they all begin again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO BOY.  
> I am so proud of this chapter you don't even know, so if you're reading and you enjoyed it, _please please please_ leave a comment to let me know! Even something as simple as "<3" really lets me know I'm appreciated, and helps motivate me to keep writing.
> 
> Also pog 5up and a little bit of a george backstory tease ;) also!!! callahan!!!  
> little bit of 5undy for the soul??? yah.
> 
> im going to bed now


	13. The Aftermath - You Are My Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from The Hush Sound's song of the same name ("You Are My Home")
> 
> We follow the immediate aftermath and wind down now that the threat is gone.
> 
> (Audience interaction! Vote [HERE](https://strawpoll.com/oq5ucfjdk) for who the NEXT chapter should focus on!)

Punz leans out of the window to his tower, frowning at the silhouette of the Badlands in the new dawn. Should he have gone with Ranboo? It sounded like the fighting was over. Still, when the younger man had turned up and dumped all that information about the evening into him, wearing _no armor at all?_

Well. It hadn’t been hard to convince the exhaustion-riddled Ranboo that the feather was worth far more than just the handbells, and he’s always been about a fair deal.   
Lying about how much the ceramic scale mail was worth didn’t feel _good_ , but Ranboo had taken it cheerily. By the sounds of it, Dream will be after another set, too. 

He forces himself back up to his bedroom where his bed calls to him, but his nervousness sits heavy in his stomach as he closes his eyes. He’ll drop around his friends over the next couple of days, he swears. Sleep doesn’t come easily regardless.

  
  
  


It’s a group effort to haul Skeppy and Bad back up to the mansion as Ranboo takes the first willing person- Phil- out to collect Antfrost from the forest’s edge. Skeppy is slowly regaining movement, but walking by himself is still completely out of the question, and Bad is too hurt from the sacrifice to carry him.

So Puffy does it instead, they have to move Skeppy carefully to avoid the rigor mortis snapping any delicate bones. The half-hour of breathing and soft massaging has helped loosen up some of the muscles, though, like his eyes and mouth, at least to a degree. His speech is stilted and robotic, but he manages to croak out a few _‘I love you, Bad’_ ’s, as the half-demon presses kiss after kiss across his face. 

Puffy hauls him up, wincing at the weight, and turns to Dream,

  
  


“Can you help me?”

“Anything,” Dream replies without hesitation, and the two of them hold Skeppy like a somewhat flexible board of wood as they head up to the mansion.

Bad follows, limping somewhat from the pains of the evening, and as they settle Skeppy into the covers of his four-poster, Bad hesitates,

“Hey, Puffy?”

“Mhm?” Puffy asks as she tucks a pillow under Skeppy’s neck to help support his upper body alongside the head, petting his hair when he groans with pain.

“We have guest rooms and- I’d feel _way_ better if you stayed here tonight? If you don’t mind?”

  
  


Puffy looks up from Skeppy, surprised but pleasantly so, and smiles at him. She gives Skeppy one last pet before working around the bed to gingerly hug Bad, mindful of the burns on his back,

  
  


“Sure, whatever you need. I’m gonna get you guys a couple of glasses of water- do you need anything else?”

  
  


Bad shakes his head, reciprocating the hug with tired enthusiasm. Dream murmurs something about water and heads out to fetch it.

  
  


“Thank you,” Bad says, muffled into Puffy’s shoulder, “For all of tonight. He wouldn’t be here if- if you hadn’t given up your sword. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost Skeppy.”

“Then don’t,” Puffy says, soothing and firm at once. She squeezes him gently, “Even if you’re comfortable now, be honest. It’ll feel better when you are.”

  
He wants to play dumb, work around the feelings the same way they have for years, but he’s so tired and she’s so right. He just nods against her shoulder.

  
  


“Okay,” he says, quiet, and Puffy steps back. Dream reappears, setting two glasses of water on the bedside table beside Skeppy and catching Puffy as she steps up beside him. He settles an arm around her shoulders as she smiles, watching Bad ease his capelet off gingerly before crawling under the covers.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, voice soft and warm, and both Bad and Skeppy manage a faint hum in reply. Puffy turns, and Dream follows her out of the room to the background noise of Bad asking if it’s okay to cuddle up to Skeppy.

  
  


He follows her down the hall to the guest bedroom, and they pause at the door, Puffy’s hand on the handle as she hesitates and looks up at him.

“I’m really glad you’re alive.”

“You know I can’t die.” Dream replies, smiling, and Puffy rolls her eyes,

“I’m really glad you’re _here,_ ” she corrects, “And Sapnap is right. You do have pretty eyes.”

  
  


Dream’s hand comes up, not for the first time, to press to his cheek. He laughs, awkwardly,

  
  


“Guess I’ll have to get a new mask, huh?”

“It’s nice to see your face,” Puffy smiles, lifting a hand once again to trace the faint scar bisecting Dream’s face, “Even if it is sort of messed up, now.”

“Do you think it makes me look rugged?” Dream asks cheekily, and that actually draws a laugh out of her, though it does fade into a sad smile,

“I think it makes you look younger, weirdly. Stay safe, duckling, and tell George how you feel.”

  
  


Dream hesitates at that, the smile flickering on his face.

  
  


“Do you think I should?”

“Your life might be infinite, but his isn’t. I know it’ll hurt to lose him, but it’ll hurt to lose me, too. And you might lose him a lot sooner if you don’t tell him.”

“I’m so scared, Puffy,” The smile has dropped completely now. Dream runs a hand over his hair, still matted and messy with blood and mud, “I’m going to lose all of you. I don’t want to live forever anymore.”

  
  


She steps up and hugs him. There’s nothing she can say that is truthful and makes this better, and she refuses to lie about things like this.

The hug lingers, and when she steps back, Dream is swiping tears from his eyes.

  
  


“I’ll see you soon, duckling.” It’s a statement, not a question. He smiles despite the tears.

“See you soon.”

  
  


She heads into the bedroom. He heads outside.

  
  
  


When he reaches the group, he finds Phil, Ranboo, Sam, and Antfrost have disappeared to apparently return the latter two to their homes.

  
  


“We’ll have to do something for Sam,” Karl is saying as he arrives, “Since he apparently held the fort together until we got here.”

“Definitely!” Tubbo agrees enthusiastically, “He deserves it. He was fighting that thing almost alone, and he lived through it- how cool is that?”

“I don’t know if _cool_ is the right adjective there, but close enough.” Techno rolls his eyes. Tubbo sticks out his tongue.

“Not all of us are english majors. I didn’t swallow a- a- what’s the-?” He glances at Tommy,

“Thesaurus,” Tommy supplies,

“Thesaurus!” Tubbo repeats brightly, “I didn’t eat a book.”

“I’ve never eaten a- wait-” Techno frowns over the thought. Lying isn’t exactly in his list of favourite things, and he… may have made some mistakes when he was younger. “Disregard that.”

  
  


That sends Tubbo and Tommy both into peals of laughter interspersed with teasing about whether spanish books taste different to english books, with a few thrown-in accidental racisms about spice. 

As they argue, Dream glances over at Sapnap. Quackity is tucked against his side, looking like he’s half asleep, head against his shoulder. Whilst he’s been away, it looks like they’ve scrabbled between themselves to find some kind of hat for him, so he’s ended up wearing Tommy’s helmet. It’s a hilarious juxtaposition of aesthetics right now, with the laurel leaves of the helmet against the loud multicolored fabric of Karl’s hoodie, and then just… pants. Regular-ass brown pants that Techno will occasionally shoot a glare at, like he can set them on fire just with his eyes.

Karl is flitting between wandering around and returning to hold Sapnap’s hand, seemingly unable to stay still for too long. Dream doesn’t exactly blame him; if he hadn’t worn himself out with dying and all the magic, he thinks he probably would be doing the same.

Instead, he pads over to George. They’ve settled Wilbur and George in one place, and Sam had occupied a space beside them before being taken home. Dream kneels at George’s side, gently loosing the glasses from atop his head and setting them on his own instead. He hears Sapnap chuckle, and his gaze darts up from George to Sapnap.

  
  


“What?” Dream demands, but there’s a smile behind it that Sapnap matches,

“You’re an idiot,” Sapnap replies, pulling his arm around Quackity a little tighter.

“Yeah? So’re you.”

“Shut up,” Sapnap laughs, and the group falls into a quiet interspersed with soft words and the occasional raucous round of laughter from Tommy and Tubbo. 

Fairly soon, Ranboo returns with Phil’s arm slung around his shoulders, reporting that Sam and Ant are tucked up safe at home.

“Velvet was worried, so someone will have to check in with the two of them tomorrow,” Ranboo informs them, and meets a collective huff,

“All the Badlands folk are already in bed,” Dream says, frowning, “But I can drop by.”

  
Ranboo gives him a thumbs up, then looks around the group,

  
“Ready to go home?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Techno half-hisses, scrambling over to pick Wilbur up. The group coalesces, Dream carrying George, Techno carrying Wilbur. Phil is half passed out, propped up by Ranboo, but he manages to sway upright long enough that Ranboo can dart around and ensure everyone has hands on one another. Once he’s established that, he returns to Phil, holds tight, and bursts them all into purple mist.

  
  


The first stop along the way is the Dream Team’s house. The group solidifies in the front garden, and the rush of relief at being home almost makes Dream collapse with George in his arms. He glances back at the group as they shuffle back into position to teleport, looks to Ranboo,

  
  


“Hey,” he says, and Ranboo looks up. Dream takes a moment to find the right words,

“You’re- thank you for tonight. If it wasn’t for you, we all would have lost everything.”

  
  


There’s murmurs of agreement from the group, coupled with a bright, excitable,

  
  


“You saved the world, minutes man!” from Tubbo. Ranboo flushes, shaking his head,

“I’m just glad everyone’s alive. And relatively okay.”

“If you ever need anything, Ranboo…” Dream trails off but the message is felt. Ranboo blinks, and for a moment, his right hand twitches up toward his face. Then it drops again.

“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, Dream.”

  
  


Dream smiles once again, and as he heads into the house, the rest of the group shifts into purple mist again and flutters off toward L’Manberg.

  
  


Dream knocks the door open with difficulty, shuffling in with George pulled tight to his chest. He settles the hedge witch on the couch, where his and Sapnap’s books from earlier are tossed aside. He stokes the fire alive and pulls out the water basin before padding over and kneeling at George’s side to shake him gently,

“We’re home,” he says softly, “Wake up. Gonna get us cleaned up.”

George groans, but his eyes flutter open. He winces and grimaces with pain, but that fades into a smile as he spots Dream, looking at him with eyes full of adoration. George raises a hand to Dream’s cheek, and Dream presses into it.

“Hey,” George says.

“Hi,” Dream replies. They stay still for a few soft, warm moments before Dream straightens up, turning to the basin and sketching out the symbols for a heating spell. The water begins to steam slowly, and George pulls himself upright,

“Hot water? What’s the occasion?”

“Our lives. C’mere,” Dream eases George over to sit beside the basin and tells him to wait whilst he heads off to collect clean clothes and towels. Or more accurately scrappy older blankets that are better for drying than keeping warm. 

He returns, sets his bundle on the couch before George can get too curious, and returns to the hedge witch.

In his absence, George has stripped out of his soiled shirt and is slowly rinsing the mostly-dried mud from his hair and body. Dream approaches with a few wash cloths and murmurs soft words as he takes to helping. He wets a cloth and begins to sweep down George’s neck and shoulder to remove the dust and caked mud, and when George is sufficiently clean, they switch to Dream.  
They end up having to lean him back over the basin so that George can soak his hair, running his fingers through a little at a time and deliberately not wincing when a mat comes out that is probably definitely a piece of brain matter. The blood comes loose along with the dirt, and eventually the water is murky but Dream’s hair is clean. They’re both still fairly gross, though, so Dream scoops up the basin and heads outside to empty it, then returns it to the tap. They watch the water slough up the sides, splashing out occasionally, and when it’s full enough, George turns the tap off. Dream casts the heating spell once more, and they return to gently wiping down mud, blood, and whatever else clings to them. In George’s case, a healthy level of soot and grave dirt. In Dream’s, more just charcoal dust.

Once they’re clean enough, and mostly stripped down with their dirty and ruined clothes thrown off to the side, Dream pads over to his pile of clothes and towels to throw a towel at George. He wraps one around himself and listens to George aggressively towelling his hair dry as he picks apart the clothes and returns to George’s side with his.

George pulls the towel down to take them and freezes halfway through his thanks.

  
  


“This is your sweater,” he says, and Dream hums affirmatively. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s- I have clothes?” George sounds so confused, and Dream laughs warmly at him,

“Just put the sweater on, idiot.” And kisses his forehead as George takes the clothes looking utterly baffled. Dream backs off to pull his own set of clothes on as George does- a usual pair of loose cotton pants that are a little too long, a pair of wool socks that were a gift from Phil, an undershirt, and a blue sweater that’s large, even on him. When he turns back, George is tucked into Dream’s sweater and the sight almost knocks him out, he swears.

He only has a few inches on George (okay- seven is more than a _few)_ but since Dream likes his comfortable clothing a little loose, it’s huge on the smaller man. It’s halfway down his thighs, and he’s flushed red as he meets Dream’s gaze.

  
  


“It’s- uh. Big.”

  
  


Dream snorts. George flushes harder.

  
  


“Shut up! You know what I meant!”

“Uh-huh.” Dream is grinning as he sidles over to take George into his arms, holding him around the waist. George huffs, but relaxes into the embrace.

They stand for a few moments before George speaks,

“You’re sleeping with me tonight, right?”

“If you want me to.”

“Of course I want you to!” George frowns as he leans back so he can look up to meet Dream’s eyes, lifting a hand to the taller man’s cheek, “I don’t want you ever to leave me again.”

  
Dream’s heart beats its way into his throat, but he smiles, and he finds it isn’t false.

  
“I don’t plan on it.”

“You promise?” George asks, and Dream swears he sees the glitter of tears, “Because I don’t want to be without you.”

“I promise,” Dream replies sincerely, dropping to rest his forehead to George’s. He closes his eyes. George stares at his eyelids, noting that his lashes are blond, too. Dark blond, but not dark enough to be considered brown.

He takes a steadying breath.

  
“I love you, you know.” It’s a whisper. Like the words themselves hold the fear in George’s chest, the flicker of his heartbeat quickening. Dream’s arms tighten around him minutely, but he does not open his eyes. 

“I love you too.”

  
Despite the tension, warmth and adoration blooms in George’s chest like a flower, and he closes his eyes, leaning into the moment and letting the soft sky waves ride out around him, the feeling like a sunset in the rising dawn, his hand at Dream’s cheek and Dream’s arms around his waist.

  
“My- my name is Clay, by the way.” Dream’s voice stumbles. He doesn’t open his eyes, screwing them resolutely shut, “My true name. What the world was shaped from, and the rubble to which it will one day return.”

  
George hums, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Dream’s cheek.

  
“Where’d you get Dream?”

“Something you and Sapnap were talking about when I first found you,” Dream says, smile audible in his voice, “When you guys asked for my name, I panicked. Said the first thing to come to mind.”

  
  
George gives a soft breath of a laugh,

“I like Dream better, personally.”

“Me too.” 

  
George takes a breath and steps back, to the sound of a faint whine from Dream that he laughs at, rolling his eyes,

  
“C’mon. Bed. I’m tired.”

“Want me to carry you?” Dream asks, and despite the intention to _sound_ jovial, they both know it’s a genuine offer. And George is very tired.

“Yeah,” he says, voice faint, “I’d like that.”

  
They leave the fire to burn out and the basin for the morning. Dream scoops George up and carries him to bed, tucking the two of them in beneath the covers, warm and comfortable. They lay side by side, facing one another, George’s eyes blinking owlishly in the faint gloom.

  
“Dream,” He says, and he sounds firmer now, “I love you.”

“I know,” Dream soothes, eyes closed, smiling, “I love you too.”

“No,” George frowns, words cloying and sticking to his tongue where he wants them loose and free, “I- I _love_ you. Like, you- you have my heart. And I want to give it to you. I want you to have everything. All of me.”

  
Dream’s eyes open to meet George’s.

  
  


“Oh.” He says, soft and quiet. George can see the blush spreading across his cheeks in darkening greyscale. He almost panics, for a moment, the fear of being rejected creeping up before it’s banished from his mind. He knows that he won’t be. He knows.

Dream leans toward him, setting his palm to George’s cheek,

  
“You have my heart, too. Everything I am is yours.”

“God,” George breathes, “Please kiss me?”

  
Dream does. It’s not a surge or a choir or a moment pulled from reality. It’s just comfort, warmth and affection in a gesture tinged with sorrow, but in the best kind of way. It’s words that can’t be said because they don’t exist yet. It’s George’s soft breath against Dream’s cheek, and Dream’s fluttering eyelids.

They part and stay, nose-to-nose, Dream grins like a fool.

  
“In the morning, can I do that again?”

“Whenever you want,” George says breathlessly. Dream’s grin only grows, and he smooths his hand down from George’s cheek to take his hand and set their clasped hands between them, closing his eyes.

“G’night, Georgie.” He says, warm, soft, tired. George smiles as he closes his eyes, too.

“Night, Dream.”

They fade off as the sun rises, the exhaustion crashing over them both like waves.  
And for the first time, Dream sleeps.

  
  
  


Ranboo sweeps the group over the low walls to L’Manberg. The guard towers are empty and the town is quiet from the outside, but as they approach the second pier, the life begins to appear. Ranboo solidifies them all just up from Fundy and 5up, who are checking over a series of supply boxes as they arrive. They can see the other citizens of L’Manberg halfway through journeys to and from their homes, and all heads turn as the group appears.

  
“Shit, you’re alive,” Fundy says- half-shouts- but it’s positive surprised, not negative. He meets half chuckles and a bright laugh from Tubbo, who jogs up the last few steps to shoulder him jovially,

“Took a minute, but yeah.”

“You beat it?”

“Debatable,” Tubbo rolls his eyes, gestures back at the group. At Quackity, half asleep on Sapnap, and Wilbur unconscious in Techno’s arms. Fundy’s concern returns, and Tubbo shakes his head,  
“We’re alright for now, but maybe keep the supplies handy, yeah? We’re gonna have to talk about it when everyone’s up and running again. Hey, 5cup!”   
The last directed at 5up as he shuffles up to rest an arm on Fundy’s shoulder, wiggling his fingers in greeting.

“Heya. You okay?”

“Better than Wilbur,” Tubbo jerks his head back at the group. Ranboo waves, and 5up laughs, shaking his head with a smile,

“I can see. Glad to see you all alive, it’s been… a while.”

“Certainly has! I am _very_ tired though, will you still be here in the morning?”

  
5up glances at Fundy. Tubbo doesn’t miss it, brief as it is, but he keeps his mouth shut about it.

  
  


“I should be here for a couple of weeks,” 5up assures, and Tubbo nods,

“You still have the key to your house, yeah?”

“You didn’t reassign it?” A grin creeps onto 5up’s face, and he pulls the key from his pocket, displaying it in the faint light from the overhead oil lamps. Tubbo shakes his head,

“It’s your house! Even if you aren’t here often, it’s still yours. I haven’t been in in a couple weeks, so everything will be kinda dusty, but I did put a new set of blankets on your bed so it should be liveable at the very least.”

“Thanks, Tubbo,” 5up pats his shoulder gratefully, and Tubbo grins at him,

“No problem. Good to see you!”

“And you,” 5up nods, and Tubbo retreats. By the time he’s finished that conversation, Niki has sprinted up to the group, one hand on Techno’s shoulder, and Tubbo returns to her worrying about Wilbur,

  
  


  
“Is he okay? What happened?”

“He’s fine,” Phil is the one to reassure her, smile soft in place, “Just wore himself out, don’t worry. Puffy kept him safe.”

“Puffy was fighting?” Niki’s eyes widen as they shift from Wilbur to Phil, “Oh no. Is she alive? Is she hurt? I should have been with you-”

“Hey, take a breath,” Phil soothes, “Puffy is fine. She’s staying with Bad and Skeppy- Skeppy was dead for a bit, but he got better- and I’m sure she’ll be through soon enough. Everything is alright, we’re all alive, relatively unhurt. Mostly just tired, if I’m honest.”

  
Niki sighs, eyes closing as she sets a hand on Wilbur’s shoulder and faint pale pink light rimes her fingertips. Not one of them has the heart to stop her as she tentatively seeks out his injuries, questing out with magic, and finds the thrum of pain in his damaged shoulder. They watch her frown and wince, bruising faintly appearing at the right side of her neck, blooming down across her shoulder to match Wilbur’s injury. In a more established setting, she’d be able to heal him painlessly, but this isn’t an established setting. It’s a reunion thrumming with worry and tension and relief at once, and the fastest way to reassure herself that Wilbur isn’t about to die is to take some of that injury upon herself.

When she pulls her hand back, it’s with some pain, a slight stutter. Techno glances down at her,

“Are you- uh- are you actually okay?” There’s worry clouded in his vision. Care is a weakness that he doesn’t often display, but fuck it, he’s already made himself terrifyingly vulnerable tonight. What’s a little more?

“I’m- hm.” Niki frowns, finding that she’d rather be truthful than just _say_ she’s okay, “I think so. I was worried for- for all of you. Even though everyone is alive…”

“I get it,” Techno assures, “It’s hard to shake worry.”

“I feel like I should have been there, with you all.” Niki’s shoulders are drawn, and Techno shifts to bump her gently,

“We lived. Anyway, if it _had_ gone wrong, we’d need a healer here to help keep everyone alive. And 5up is the most inept healer I’ve ever seen.”

“I _can_ hear you!” 5up calls, “And you _are_ right.”

  
Niki at least smiles at that, and Techno does the same at the sight.

  
“There you go. We’re always open for tea or something if you want to come over tomorrow.” Techno says, and Phil nods in agreement at his other side. Niki lets out a shaking breath.

“Yeah, that sounds nice. I’ll let you all get to bed, you’re probably tired.”

“Absolutely knackered,” Phil agrees helpfully, “My bed is _calling_ for me.”

  
They chatter a little longer regardless, perfect background noise for Tommy and Tubbo to decide it’s probably time to get the fuck home.

  
“You’re taking Wilbur, right?” Tubbo asks, and Tommy nods, tension in the movement. Tubbo pats his shoulder in reassurance, and Tommy shuffles over to Techno, interrupting the quiet conversation. He opens his mouth, and before he can speak, Techno is already handing Wilbur over,

“Probably better that we _don’t_ leave the unconscious man at home alone.”

“Right,” says Tommy, “That’s why I’m taking him.”  
  
It’s a lie and they both know it. He’s afraid, terrified of losing Wilbur, even though he knows it’s unreasonable to think Wilbur might die when he’s stable. He takes the unconscious form anyway, holds him tight.

“Thanks for- uh- for tonight, Techno.”

  
A pause, once more, as they glance at one another. Techno is deadpan, and Tommy tries desperately to maintain bravado overtop of genuine emotion.

Techno’s expression softens slightly.

  
“Whenever you need me. Even if you annoy the shit out of me, you’re still my friend, and I’ll still fight with you.”

  
For a moment, Tommy is struck dumb. Then he whoops, loud and raucous,

  
“Ha! You called me your friend! You can’t take that back!”

“Fuck!” Techno curses in faux rage, and Tommy laughs wildly at him as he retreats back to Tubbo. He’s followed by curses and greeted with chuckles, Tubbo rolling his eyes at him.

“Alright, ready to go home?” Tommy asks through a bright grin, and Tubbo gives a snort of laughter.

“Just a sec?”

“Got it.” Tommy nods, and Tubbo takes the few steps from him to Ranboo’s side.

Ranboo is stood swaying upright, smiling and staring up at the sky blankly. It’s almost possible to _hear_ the empty elevator music running through his head with his exhaustion, but he looks down as Tubbo taps his shoulder.

  
“Hm?”

Tubbo hugs him. Tightly, so tight that he’s worried something might crack under the force. And he’s silent as he does so, which is, in itself, so revealing.

Tubbo always has words to speak, even in the darkest nights. When he was inducted as vice president and every conflict that’s come after, Tubbo is _never_ silent.

But he says nothing here, and Ranboo returns his hug with confused but enthusiastic intent.

  
“Hey, are you okay?” It’s genuine concern despite the absent tone to his voice, and Tubbo just nods awkwardly despite having his cheek pressed to Ranboo’s shoulder. Well. Ranboo decides fairly quickly that he’s not going to begrudge him whatever comfort he’s finding in this, and so holds tight until Tubbo steps back and finally finds his words.

“You saved the world tonight, Ranboo.”

  
No nickname, no pull of his old position in the cabinet, just his name and sincerity that Ranboo can’t really comprehend. He blinks, baffled.

  
  


“I didn’t even fight.”

“Yeah, but if we hadn’t all been there- we got there just in time for Ant. He would’ve died, and so would Sam, and probably Puffy, too. And then it would’ve come for L’Manberg, and after L’Manberg, the kingdom. El Rapids. The world.”

“I think you’re catastrophising a little there.” Ranboo smiles slightly, and Tubbo laughs.

“Maybe a little, but I don’t think by much, honestly. Nobody in the kingdom is capable like we are. You know how they feel about magic, and Callahan would never be able to hold up to it by himself.”

  
A pause. That’s _true,_ Ranboo knows- their aggressive hatred of magic was such a huge part of why George left. Callahan has to keep his studies under wraps, but he’s more determined than George is to change everything. If it wasn’t for the combined efforts of their friends here and left behind, there wouldn’t have been anything to stop that thing from ravaging a path through the undergrowth.

  
“I guess,” Ranboo says, voice quiet, “I guess I helped.”

“You were the backbone of this fight.” Tubbo pokes him, but the gesture is gentle, “Do _not_ sell yourself short.”

“It- it was a group effort.”

“I said you were the _backbone,_ not the whole body, didn’t I? I’m not saying it wasn’t a group effort, ‘cause it was. But you’re the foundation everything was built on.”

  
  


Ranboo can feel his face and ears burning, looking everywhere that isn’t Tubbo’s intense expression. After a few moments of silence, Tubbo relents, easing back.

  
“Just want you to know you’re appreciated. I’ll see you soon?”

“See you soon,” Ranboo agrees, and Tubbo returns to Tommy. Tommy gives him a nod, and they bid the group farewell as they head off home.

  
Tubbo unlocks the door and holds it open for Tommy, who heads off upstairs as Tubbo locks up and makes a detour to the kitchen.

Tommy knees the door to his bedroom open and shuffles over to set Wilbur down on his bed, beginning to peel him out of the outer layers of clothes like his coat and boots. He gingerly removes Wilbur’s glasses and beanie and sets them on the bedside table, and about as he finishes that, Tubbo clatters in the door. He has two honey buns in one hand, and two mugs half-full of water in the other, held precariously by the handles.

  
“So I didn’t spill them,” he explains as Tommy’s eyes trace the line of the water.

“Understandable,” Tommy takes the mugs from him and sets them on the table, takes the bun he’s handed in turn. The two of them eat through their buns in relative silence and speed, interspersing bites with sips of water.

When they’re done, Tubbo sets his mug down and sighs,

  
“Right. I’m going to get changed.”

  
He turns for the door, and Tommy catches his sleeve,

  
  


“You’re coming back, right?”

“‘Course, if you want me to?” Tubbo smiles, and Tommy nods,

“Yeah. Please.”

  
Tubbo hums affirmatively and shuffles out to change into something more appropriate for sleep, and Tommy scrambles to do the same in his absence.

He unbuckles and unfastens his armor and sets it carefully on its stand, frowning at it judgmentally. He’ll have to get his helmet back from Q tomorrow.

He’s most of the way through hopping into a clean pair of pants when Tubbo raps at his door,

  
“Two seconds-” Tommy calls over, tucking his shirt into the waistband, “- Alright, you’re good.”

“Hey,” Tubbo greets. His hair is damp, so Tommy assumes he probably rinsed it off briefly in the bathroom. He probably should do the same, but he’s content to wait ‘til morning.

“Will’s staying with us?” Tubbo asks as Tommy shuffles toward the bed, and receives a nod in return. Tommy manhandles Wilbur into place on one side, leaving enough room for him to turn in his sleep without hurting himself or rolling off the bed.

It’s a poorly kept secret that Tommy shelled out for the queen size bed basically for this purpose. Okay, so maybe not keeping an unconscious Wilbur close, but still- he has shit nights, sometimes. So does Tubbo. Tubbo moreso than him, with his latent death-related powers, but it’s not as though it’s _solely_ Tubbo that bears that burden.

They’d begun sleeping beside one another for comfort, though neither of them found it particularly comfortable to be curled up squished together in a single bed. When they’d finally gotten their own home, the bigger bed was one of the first furniture pieces to be brought in.

There’s plenty of room for him and Tubbo to take a side each and stay apart whilst they’re together, a comfortable distant closeness. It’s significantly more squished with the addition of Wilbur, but one night won’t kill them.

  
  
Tommy crawls into the middle under the blankets, dragging his personal one behind him. That’s another aspect they’ve invested in- there’s the quilt that covers the whole bed, but whenever Tubbo winds up sleeping with him, they both have individual blankets to burrito up in. Saves them from being blanket hogs.

Tubbo has his wrapped around himself as he worms into bed on the side opposite Wilbur, curling up as though he’s _trying_ to make himself small.

  
  
They’re quiet for a time, Tubbo curled into a ball, Tommy with his back pressed against Wilbur’s arm where he can feel the tiny movements as he breathes.

Something niggles at the back of Tommy’s mind, even as Tubbo closes his eyes and relaxes into the blankets. Eventually, it comes to him in words,

  
“Hey, I just- I wanted to thank you. You fully saved my arse today.”

“Huh?” Tubbo cracks an eye open, “I didn’t really do much. I just made big glowy things.”

“If it wasn’t for those _big glowy things,_ ” Tommy makes air quotes around the words, “Shit would have been a _lot_ worse. You distracted it whilst we were fighting- y’know, the people that can die? And that bee- if you hadn’t caught me-”

“I told you to jump!” Tubbo protests,

“If you hadn’t told me to jump, I would’ve ended the same way big Q did.”

  
  


Tubbo huffs. It’s admittedly true, but he doesn’t have to tell Tommy that.

  
  


“Alright, fair enough, but still. George and Phil literally brought people back to life, Wilbur made those massive chains and stopped it coming back.”

“Tubbo…” The name comes out in a concerned drawl that makes Tubbo wince.

“Drop it, Tommy.”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Tommy frowns at him, “You’re selling yourself short and that’s not right. Nobody gets to talk shit about you. Not even you.” A pause as the sincerity settles in, and he goes ahead and ruins it with, “Nobody except me.”

  
  


Tubbo snorts with laughter at that.

  
  


“You know you can just say you love me.”

“Alright, I do love you. You’re- you’re like my _brother,_ man. You’re important.”

  
  


Tubbo is quiet, catching his breath over the desire to push back. He fills his lungs with a question instead,

  
  


“Phil… Phil said you’d die for me. You’d give your life for mine. Is that- is he right?”

“Yeah.” There’s no hesitation behind Tommy’s answer, “He’s dead right. If I had the choice between me and you, and only one of us gets to live, I’m picking you. Every time.”

  
  


Tubbo sniffles a little. Tommy elects to gloss over it.

  
  


“I’d choose you too, big man. Thank you.”

“If you ever need to be bullied into agreeing that we’re, I don’t know- fuckin’ brothers or some shit- you know where my room is.”

  
  


Tubbo gives a soft, half-watery laugh, and they let the quiet return. In the gloom, Tommy snakes a hand out from under his own blanket to wrap his little finger around Tubbo’s, and that’s how they stay as the time and the darkness claim them and drag them down to sleep, Wilbur’s breath patient and routine against Tommy’s back, and the dawn slowly rising.

Phil and Techno head home very soon after Tommy and Tubbo depart, bidding Niki and the others a good night of sleep. Except that Phil takes one step and almost collapses, caught on one side by Techno, and on the other by Ranboo, ducking under his arm to hold him up.

  
  


“I’ve got you,” Ranboo assures, glancing to make sure Techno’s hold on Phil’s shoulder is firm before they dissipate, Ranboo teleporting them through the town to the door to their home.

  
  


He holds Phil up as Techno unlocks the door, and Phil shifts to look at him from the edge of his vision.

  
  


“Y’know, we have, like… a spare room, Ranboo.”

“That’s nice!” Ranboo replies genuinely, completely glancing over the implication under the words. Techno sighs, pushing and holding the door open,

“He’s inviting you to stay the night.”

“And also live with us, if you want.” Phil tacks on, to a raised eyebrow from Techno.

  
It’s not like they haven’t _talked_ about it, and despite Techno’s general lack of trust, he’d rather Ranboo with them in the warmth than in his tent in the wilderness. He just wasnt expecting the offer tonight, with six boxes of books stacked against the wall in the spare room and a healthy layer of dust cloaking the whole place.

Makes sense, what with the magic drugs in him right now. Phil will be wanting to keep an eye on him, and hey- two birds with one stone.

  
  


“Oh- uh-” Ranboo replies, wide-eyed, and Phil laughs at him as he’s half-carried into the house,

“You don’t have to make the big choice now. But please, stay the night at least- I don’t like the after effects of those fuckin’ chews. I’d feel better if you’re _not_ in the middle of nowhere under a tarp.”

“I- huh. Yeah. Yeah, okay.” Ranboo doesn’t really have the mental wherewithal to argue. In fact, as he sets Phil safely down on the edge of his own bed, a wave of exhaustion rolls over him, so strong that he doubles over, almost collapsing. Phil laughs at him again, but it’s nice. It’s affectionate, and he knows Phil isn’t being cruel, just finding amusement in things he’ll find funny himself come morning. 

“Go to bed, mate” Phil pats his shoulder, glancing up at the door where he can see Techno leaning against the frame, listening. Ranboo nods, fighting to catch his breath,

“Thank you for letting me stay,” he manages as he stumbles toward the door, and Phil smiles at his retreating back,

“Anytime.”

  
Ranboo passes Techno, who points helpfully at the door to the guest room, and throws a quick,

  
  


“Sleep well.” After him.

  
Ranboo barely makes it into the room before he’s collapsing on the bed, passing out promptly. Techno sighs as he catches the end edge of the fall through the crack of the door, and he turns his head around Phil’s own door,

  
“Do we have any spare blankets?”

  
Phil points at the pile on the top of one of his dressers, and Techno heads over to pluck some.

  
“Get his armor off him, too. It’ll kill him when he wakes up.” Phil requests, and Techno just nods as he turns for the door.

“Do you need anything before I go to bed?”

  
Phil shakes his head,

  
“I’ll be fine. Night, Techno.”

“Night, Phil.” Techno flashes him a brief smile, closing the door behind him.

  
He heads through to Ranboo’s room- _the spare room,_ he reminds himself- and tries as gently as possible to pull Ranboo’s ceramic armor off. It’s not buckled down on the inside, just tied with the ribbons on the outside, and they’re more aesthetic than actual fastenings. When it’s loosened, it slips over his head with little resistance, only catching a few times on his sleeves.   
Techno sets it gingerly on top of one of the boxes of books and tosses the blankets he’d taken from Phil’s room over Ranboo, making sure he has his head on the pillow and at least somewhat elevated, and then he heads out to bed. He closes the door behind him.  
He wasn’t raised in a pig sty, regardless of the aesthetic he likes to adapt.

His bed is welcoming despite the thin layer of grime, but he rapidly decides that’ll be a problem for tomorrow. He’ll clean himself up, wash his sheets, sounds like a good use of a summer day if he’s honest.

  
  
  


The last group to depart from the docks is Sapnap, Karl, and Quackity. Despite his mortal weariness, Quackity insists on talking through the evacuation plan with Fundy from his place against Sapnap’s shoulder, and Karl sits on the damp wood to play chess with 5up whilst they listen in. Occasionally, 5up will chirp up with a piece of information or the plan that Fundy has missed, and usually, he’ll receive a gentle flick of his head leaves for his troubles.

Eventually, though, Quackity yawns so wide that they all hear his jaw crack slightly, and _Fundy_ demands that Sapnap and Karl take him home. 

  
“Alright, alright,” Karl squints at the board and shifts a piece, “Just a minute. Let me w-”

“Checkmate.” 5up grins as he shifts his bishop into place. Sandwiched between two pawns of his own, with 5up’s knight flanking the front- the last check- and a castle in the rear guarding a pawn of 5up’s own. It’s mostly luck and poor planning on Karl’s half, but he groans regardless and stands.

“Who’s on guard after you?” Sapnap directs at Fundy,

“Purpled,” Fundy replies with a grimace, “I don’t like to put him on guard, but he’s the only one that got enough sleep.”

“At least he’s fast,” Karl comes to Sapnap’s side, taking his free hand, “Hope you’re paying him enough.”

“He won’t work without it,” Fundy laughs, a bark of a noise, sharp in the rising sunlight. 5up finishes clearing the board away and stands, leaning an arm once more on Fundy’s shoulder.

“I’ll make sure he gets to bed, don’t worry,” he assures, watching Sapnap’s shoulders soften minutely with the concern he’d left unsaid. Fundy rolls his eyes,

“I’m an adult in charge of my own sleep schedule.”

“You’d work yourself to death if you were given the chance. C’mon, I’m not here long- sleepover?”

  
It’s a well-known fact that Fundy finds it exceptionally hard to say _no_ to 5up. There’s few things he won’t suffer through for the mercenary, and 5up _knows_ it. And will shamelessly abuse that ability to make Fundy take care of himself.

The tension melts from his shoulders at 5up’s pleading eyes and mischievous smile.

  
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go- see you later. Feel better, Q.” He nods at the group, and they all bid one another farewell as they split off in opposing directions down the pier. Sapnap, Quackity, and Karl return to the husbands’ home, Karl’s hands shaking as he unlocks the door and opens it to the gloom inside.

Sapnap basically carries Quackity up the stairs once the door is locked, Karl in quick pace behind him, scrambling around them in the hall to open the door to their shared bedroom. The shades are still down, but the new daylight is peeking in around the edges as Sapnap deposits Quackity in bed.

  
“I know it’s been a long night, but, like- can we talk this out a bit, before bed? I just wanna know where I stand. And also where I sleep.” Sapnap glances at them both, at Quackity splayed out in the blankets and Karl stood half-trembling a good few feet from the edge.

“I mean- with us, right?” Karl glances at Quackity, who is already nodding before the sentence is out of Karl’s mouth. Sapnap’s mouth quirks into a smile despite his best effort to remain serious.

  
  
Quackity clears his throat,

“Yeah, so- I don’t know how much Karl told you whilst I was dead-”

“Just that we’ve been talking,” Karl assures, and Quackity nods at him,

“But I thought I was fairly obvious, at least. I like you, Sap.”

“But like- you’re married. How- where do I-”

“Don’t have a ring anymore!” Karl tries to joke, and though there’s a couple of faint laughs from the others, it falls mostly flat. He sighs in the crushing silence afterward.  
“We- uh. Alex and I were thinking of renewing our vows anyway, since when we got married it wasn’t really… y’know?”

“Yeah,” Sapnap agrees softly,

“I don’t think it’s that much of a stretch that we just… push it back a bit. See how… see if we work. It’s an option, I guess, in the future, that maybe-”

“We can probably persuade Wilbur to write for a triad ceremony.” Quackity says, with none of the gravity of the room, “If you want.”

“I- whoa,” Sapnap laughs, pushing a hand into his hair, “That was more serious than I meant, honestly. I mean I’m not _opposed,_ but maybe we just. Wait a bit first. See how it goes. Maybe kiss a bit? If that’s… okay with you?”

“Fine with me.” Quackity shrugs, glancing up at Karl- or the spot that Karl had occupied a split-second prior, more accurately, as he surges across the room and throws his arms around Sapnap’s neck as he kisses him, hard. It takes a moment for Sapnap’s brain to catch up, and when it does, he kisses back. He sets his hands on Karl’s waist to hold him still, settling the tremble still running through him.

They break after a few moments, to a wolf whistle from Quackity.

  
  
“Shut up,” Karl throws over his shoulder, but it’s accompanied by a smile. Quackity laughs at him as he scuffles under the blankets,

“You think _I’ve_ got it bad for you, Sapnap? _Karl_ is insufferable.”

“ _Shut up!_ ” It’s more like a whine this time, and Karl breaks off from Sapnap to basically tackle Quackity into the pillows and kiss him quiet. Sapnap smiles at the affectionate aggression, begging to work on the buckles of his armor. After a few moments of them not noticing he’s absent, Karl kneels up, looking over,

  
  


“Sapnap?”

“I’ll be there,” he assures, “Just the armor.”

  
  


Karl returns to him to help with the buckles and fastenings, and they’re quick to strip the armor and Sapnap’s outer shirt off of him despite the fact that Karl keeps interspersing buckles with brief kisses, and Quackity follows them with bright laughs that make Sapnap smile.

They finally finish prepping for bed and all three of them crawl under the covers and tuck in close to one another, closer than they’d usually sleep, but after a night like the one they’ve just lived through… it’s fine. They’re fine.

Karl settles to Quackity’s left, Sapnap to his right, sandwiching him in the centre with his wings carefully tucked around and behind him, feathers trembling with the almost-purr that’s built in his chest. It’s a comforting background to fall asleep to, warm breath and warm bodies and safety in the morning light.

Outside, birds chirrup and the river flows under the stilts of the houses. Wind rustles leaves, and patience sits in every breath taken in the guard tower, hope resides in the space on 5up’s bed where he leaves Fundy sleeping. The world is calm in the aftermath of heartbreak, and life persists through adversity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Audience interaction! Vote [HERE](https://strawpoll.com/oq5ucfjdk) for who the NEXT chapter should focus on!
> 
> Usual "I really appreciate every comment i get" spiel, even things as simple as <3 fill me with Joy because i know you enjoy my work.
> 
> I know this chapter kind of flicked across everyone very quickly but i wanted to have a little bit of everyone and I had some very vivid ideas of what i wanted ^^


	14. Concurrent first - Sunseeker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Naked and Famous' song of the same name (["Sunseeker"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sufGZMGiYrI))
> 
> The first of the concurrent chapters, following Dream and George in the morning after the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters will be split between perspectives of the "main" groups with some overlap where they meet up before it all reunifies.
> 
> Once again, you can influence who the next chapter will be about by voting in [ the poll](https://strawpoll.com/23okhfw6y)!

When consciousness returns to the little cottage in the clearing, it’s George’s eyes opening first. He and Dream have barely moves over the course of the night, their fingers still interlocked, their breath still faintly shared, though their legs are tangled under the blankets now.

The light peeking through the edges of the blinds is bright and honey yellow warm, a clear mark of a midsummer afternoon. He can hear soft chirps and the rhythmic pounding of a woodpecker, somewhere out to the edge of the clearing. The breeze is soft, and the smell of summer flowers is faint but present even through the cracked window.

George smiles as he shifts to lift his hand to Dream’s cheek, finding himself surprised when Dream doesn’t really stir. He hums slightly, tucks his face into George’s warmth, and quiets again.

It occurs to George that he’s _asleep._ Dream _doesn’t sleep._ He’s never slept before, and they’ve been friends for nearly fifteen years. They’ve been sleeping together since Sapnap and George ran away, so a good… six? Years? It’s hard to keep track. How old was Sapnap? Fourteen?

George never remembers how old _he_ was, because the years melt away when every day feels like one, sat in a stuffy throne room with his chin resting on his hand and his crown too heavy for his young head. Callahan wasn’t exactly any more comfortable, but he wasn’t the heir apparent at the time. His crown was delicate, silver, more a circlet than a true crown, with the Wizard’s black opal intricately worked into it. It was that which spurred him to learn magic. The kingdom’s own downfall.

But Dream has never slept. George wonders if he dreams.

He shuffles closer, trying his best not to wake the sleeping man as he cuddles up close, tucking his head in the space between Dream’s neck and shoulder, pulling their clasped hands up to the angle where their chests meet so that he can feel both their heartbeats at once.

He lies there comfortable and half asleep for another half hour, though time slides past him without meaning. Eventually, though, he feels Dream stir and take a breath through his nose that has the distinct air of being the first breath of the day.

  
  


“Hey,” George greets quietly, “Sleep well?”

  
  


Dream is silent for a few seconds as he collects his bearings, blinking and arching his back a little to stretch, jostling George.

  
  


“That was sleep?” He says, eventually, “I saw so many things…”

  
  


“Yeah?” George tilts his head up against Dream’s neck, “Like what?”

  
  


“You and Sapnap, mostly. Getting older. Being together. My best friends. My heart.”

  
  


“Getting older…” George muses, “It is inevitable.”

  
  


“Not for me. But I- I saw it! My hair was long and I had new claw caps, metal ones, and- and you were there, and Sapnap too. I was older.”

  
  


“That sounds nice,” George smiles, squeezing Dream’s fingers, “I think you finally had a dream. A real one.”

  
“Whoa,” Dream breathes, staring at the ceiling without seeing it, “It was- it felt so _real._ ”

  
“Yeah,” George says warmly, “It can be nice, sometimes. But it can hurt when you wake up from a good one.”

  
“Why would I want to stay there when I can wake up to you?” Dream shifts to look at George, who flushes at the corny line, but can’t stop himself smiling regardless.

  
“You’re such an idiot,” He half-laughs, tilting his head up to kiss Dream before he can retort. Dream melts into his touch, and it’s a powerful feeling; Dream, an immortal, undying and unfettered by reality, becoming soft and pliable under his palm and his mouth.

  
He sighs when George slips back, warm, happy, and utterly content. Everything hurts, aching from the day before, but he feels _incredible._ The world could take him on in this moment, and he feels he’d barely notice, immune to even the harshest, blackest night. George settles his head on Dream’s chest, listening to the soft, rhythmic pounding of his heart the same way he so often does on stormy nights.

Dream wriggles an arm around George’s shoulders to draw faint circles against his spine as they lie in the afternoon warmth, comfortable but for the creeping, edging fear of naming this, of talking, of being.

Eventually, George’s stomach rumbles loudly, and Dream laughs at him, shoving gently until he sits up.

  
  


“C’mon, I’ll cook.”

“Wow,” George says flatly, “What an honor.”

“Shut up,” Dream laughs, shoving his shoulder as he slips out of bed and stretches. George watches, perched on the bed with an eyebrow raised and interest in the shift of Dream’s sweater against his back and shoulders. He’s _pretty,_ and George loves him.

  
  


He wanders out with little more than a wink thrown over his shoulder, and George scrambles up to follow.

Dream starts the fire and sets a pot of water on the bar of the spit above to boil, shuffling around and gathering ingredients for what looks to be lining up to be an excellent stew.

  
  


“No meat,” he warns, “I don’t have anything fresh enough and the idea of killing a rabbit or something right now makes me wanna cry.”

  
  


George laughs at him.

  
  


“No meat.” He agrees, and steps outside to take care of his morning routine.

  
  


The grass is sun-warm under his feet and butterflies flit by him commonly. He even sees a dragonfly, once, darting off in the direction of the pond.  
He follows it curiously, kneeling by the stones to blink at the flashing scales of Beckerson and Mars. Beckerson spies him from the other side of the pond and swims over to circle in his shadow, and he chuckles, dipping a hand into the water quickly to rub his fingers semi-clean before he gently pets Beckerson’s back. After a couple of seconds of being pet, Beckerson flits back to the other end of the pond, and George wipes his hand off on his pants.

Mars is more Sapnap’s fish than his, but doesn’t tolerate petting. Beckerson can be temperamental, but he’ll occasionally come over for attention- they can tell when he wants to be pet and when he just wants to be appreciated, because he’ll stay low in the water if it’s the latter. They’re all careful with him, after the first infection that made George cry with worry.  
  


Hey, the benefits of being a hedge witch is cracking out the magic to make sure your fish doesn’t die.

  
  
  


When he returns to the house, Dream is perched atop the counter above the fire, gnawing at a piece of jerky.

  
  


“Hey,” He greets as George enters and comes padding over toward him. He sets his palms on the stone either side of Dream and leans up, finds himself met halfway in a brief kiss. 

“Hey,” George replies as he leans back, pulling his hands from the stone before they burn.

“Carrots are in.”

“Thanks,” George smiles at him, “Do you need anything?”

“Mmm,” Dream pretends to think, nudging George back so he can stand up, “Maybe a hug?”

  
  


George steps into the embrace before the words are fully out of Dream’s mouth, revelling in the quiet warmth of the day. They both know this won’t last forever- it’ll barely last _long,_ but it lasts now. And they’re taking every drip of it that they can.

  
  


“Love you,” Dream murmurs, face buried in George’s hair. George smiles, gives a breath of amused laughter.

“I love you too.”

  
  


The afternoon slips past like silk water through fingers, and once Dream has served up the stew for George, he kisses him on the forehead and shifts off toward the door.

  
  


“I gotta go visit the Badlands. I promised.”

“Sapnap’ll be home soon, though,” George looks up, a slight frown creasing his brow. Dream knows it isn’t serious; he’s just pouting. He does this.

“I know, I’ll be fast. I don’t think a little more magic is going to matter when… last night,” Dream rolls his eyes, but there’s a tenseness to his words that George sympathises with. And he is worried about Ant and Bad and the others, after all.

“Stay safe.”

“Yeah,” Dream agrees, but doesn’t promise. They both know he can’t do that right now, and he doesn’t make a habit of lying to George or Sapnap.

  
  


George eats his way through his bowl of stew and is ladling seconds by the time Dream returns from armoring up. He’s back in his light armor, cuir boulli chestplate over woven leather and silver. He’s not in _full_ getup, though, wearing a normal, simple black shirt underneath.

When he’s pulling his boots on, George can see the spiralling scars on his palms and arms from the searing runes of his axe the night before, the faint line down is face trailing under his neckline from where he’d been _bisected,_ the burns around his eyes from the magic he’d pumped into his friends.

Even Dream doesn’t get away from the consequences of the gifts the world has been given. He dreads to think what he looks like. The only reason his body isn’t charcoaled is due to Dream conduiting magic, being the grounding wire for the lightning of reality. 

His lungs still burn when he breathes in, though. Phil might have fixed the majority of the damage to his body when he’d merged the timelines together, but summoning the meteors should have been a death sentence in itself. It’s going to leave scars, and he doubts any will be visible.

It’s the same theory of burning from the inside out. His lungs shouldn’t have held up to the coursing wildfire of a spell far out of his reach, but they somehow _did._ He’ll take some wheezing over being dead.

Dream kisses the top of his head before he leaves, bidding him a quiet, warm farewell before he closes the front door behind him and surges away as a bolt of lime green lightning.

He doesn’t pause as often today as he had that time making a casual journey to see Skeppy. He wonders distantly if Roberto is okay. 

The only breaks he takes are a split second long on the dirt path to pull a breath in, and then he’s surging off again- it’s a weakness of his, he knows, that he needs to stop to breathe. In that way, Ranboo is stronger than he is, even though he’s slower.

Besides, the younger man can take others with him when he teleports. Dream’s is localised only to himself.

He stumbles to solidity at the gates to the Badlands. There’s no guard on post, and a chunk of the wall has been knocked down about fifty feet off, but the gate is open regardless.

Beyond, the hills that had previously been so carefully kept with grass and flowers are torn apart. From here, he can see the farmland off to the right has had the same treatment, and even though he knows he should check on his friends, first… he heads in that direction.   
  


God only knows if they’re even awake yet. Has anyone been by?

  
As he comes up over the crest of the first hill, steps careful in the cobblestone rubble, he spies the stable where they keep Roberto and the other horses. Part of it is caved in from the top and crumbling, and from this position, everything looks… still. Nothing moves, all the dust has settled long ago.

Safe to say he sprints the last distance with electricity crackling around him.

“Oh, shit. No, no, _no,_ ” It comes as a hiss as he makes it to the edge of the stable. The door is partially blocked with broken wood and planks, so he knows he needs to be careful. Being Ranboo would be _so useful_ right now, he has so much more control over his non-solid state than Dream does. But he needs the control. So he takes a breath and summons all his willpower within him and dissolves.

  
For a moment, he’s zipping in a circle in a bolt of lightning, unable to be still. But he forces himself to clarify his mind, care and gentle and not speed right now.

The bolt of lightning spreads somewhat, a cloud of static, shifting slower and within itself. Something he has never done before, but _fuck it._ He’ll take what he can get.

He eases himself through the thin cracks between the wood, careful to maintain that loose cloud of himself. If he shifts back to being a bolt of lightning, he’ll almost certainly crash into something, and that could bring the whole rest of the stable down. It’s already a wreck, and as he eases in, he can see blood pooled on the floor and the first stall completely concaved, crushing the horse within. The corpse is still in the hay. But it’s not Roberto- he’s more to the centre, and it’s _that_ alone that gives Dream the barest hope he might have survived.

He carefully solidifies himself back into shape in the relative open space, just out from the pool of blood. There’s the sound of soft nickering, snorting breaths, so he knows at least a couple of the horses have survived this decimation.

The first live horse he passes is dusted with dirt and soot, but looks relatively calm despite half the stall being knocked inward. It’s a relatively sturdy percheron that looks to be almost pure white under the blood from the light grazes and the dirt from the rubble, and it takes Dream a moment to recognise what he’s looking at.

“Cottonball!” The exclamation is quiet but surprised, and he steps carefully and quickly over fallen planks as Cottonball’s head swings to him. He lifts his hands slowly and carefully, but Cottonball seems to recognise him, and presses her head into his palms, nickering quietly.

Cottonball is Puffy’s horse, stabled at the Badlands partially because she lives close anyway, but mostly because she’s safest here. Puffy knows even if she doesn’t get a chance to care for the horse, someone else will- usually Antfrost.

Well, Cottonball complicates things.

  
  


“I’m glad you’re okay,” Dream murmurs, rubbing Cottonball’s cheeks the way she demands of him, “I’m going to see who else is alive. I’ll be back for you.”

  
  


He lowers his hands, and Cottonball gives a quiet whinny of panic. He makes wordless soothing noises at her until she stops tossing her head, smiling reassuringly,

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll just be a few minutes.” He promises, and like she can understand, Cottonball retreats. He shuffles through the next few stalls. Two are empty, one is damaged in such a way that the horse within is dead, and Dream frowns slightly. He bids a silent wish for calm travel to the horse’s soul, and moves on.

He spies Roberto’s stall, denoted by the fine brass sign at the door, engraved with his name. Part of it appears to be collapsed and he feels his heart beat in his throat with worry as he approaches.

His steps creak against broke planks on the floor, and as if summoned, Roberto’s head appears over the door with a whinny. Relief floods Dream, and he picks the last few steps to ruffle his ears.

“You are a _lucky_ fuckin’ horse,” He grumbles as Roberto sniffs and noses at his arm. Roberto, being a horse, does not reply.  
  
  


As he rubs Roberto’s ear idly, he begins to consider how he’s going to get the horses out of here. The structural integrity of the barn is severely lacking, at this point, and he’s worried that shifting any of the debris could bring the rest of it down. Cottonball and Roberto are separated by a good handful of stalls, too, and he’s facing the idea that he might have to choose between them.

He decides to begin by moving them both to the same place, and Roberto’s stall- or the alley right outside- seems like the better option. Cottonball’s stall is half caved in, after all.

He eases away from Roberto, who takes it a lot more peacefully than Cottonball had.

Cottonball is waiting for him at the gate when he returns to her, and he greets her quietly as he unlatches her gate and tugs.

It doesn’t come loose. He pulls harder and hears creaking, so he stop, quickly and concernedly, looking up as a cloud of dust is loosed from the rubble and settles. Cottonball shimmies nervously, and he reaches out to pet her,

“Okay, okay. I’m thinking. You can’t climb this, can you?”

It’s rhetorical. He knows she can’t get over the gate, at least as it is right now. So he won’t be able to get her out like this. 

He runs over the things he knows how to do, and looks around the wreckage. Strewn pieces of tack and broken wood pillars litter the floor, and the reins and harnesses give him an idea.

He gets straight to work putting together a kind of support, reinforcing the beams at the sides of the gate with the leather and buckles together with spare pieces of wood. Once he’s done that, he tests the gate again.  
It takes some tugging, but things stay relatively still and the gate opens, letting Cottonball scurry out into the alley, winding around Dream’s back to put him between herself and the stall. He reaches behind himself to pet at her as he tucks the gate closed once again.

“Good girl,” He soothes, turning to her, “Come here. C’mon.”

He guides her up toward Roberto, who sticks his nose out to sniff at her. She returns the greeting as Dream unlatches Roberto’s stall, letting the shire out into the alley alongside Cottonball. The two of them nose at one another as Dream thinks about it, frowning in his concentration. Doing anything roughly would unnerve the horses, and he needs some kind of control over them to keep them safe.

He manages to dig out a couple of bridles. Being a shire, the one he finds for Roberto ends up being a little tight around the cheeks, but it’s temporary. He apologises anyway.

He guides the two horses toward the collapsed entrance, despite the fact that they shy away the closer they get.

“You’re going to hate this,” he says, gripping the reins tightly in one hand and stretching the other out. He pulses with energy and focuses it, spiralling it up from the ground, thrumming through his veins down toward his open palm, eyes closed, a vein throbbing in his temple. He exhales, and with that breath comes a blast of energy and crackling lightning like a bolt of thunder. Immediately, the horses buck, but he holds fast and pulls them along as the building cracks behind them, around them, everywhere. The door has been blasted outward, but the stable is breaking and he has bare seconds.

It’s a horrible show of strength and superiority, but he drags Roberto and Cottonball out despite their panicked pulling as the stable collapses behind him. He knows there were likely other horses alive in there. Not anymore. He feels guilt pulse, but he could barely pull Roberto and Cottonball out. There was no saving them. And with his participation, nobody else needs to feel the guilt of choosing lives over another life.

As soon as they’re clear of the rubble, Dream immediately begins to try and soothe the horses. They’re bucking and pulling, ears flat back against their heads, and he has to fight to keep them from bolting as he switches between petting each of them soothingly. Cottonball tries to bite him, but he doesn’t begrudge that of her. He did just collapse her home.

Eventually they relax to the point that Dream doesn’t think they’re about to bolt, and he quickly busies himself taking off the too-small bridle from Roberto, trusting the horse to follow him without it. He’s calmer than Cottonball, more well behaved, and he doesn’t like to be alone.

He’s trying to figure out what to do as he leads Cottonball along, Roberto trotting behind, heading toward the mansion. He knows it’s not really his responsibility, but he can’t really stop his mind from working. Thinking about the extra feed they keep in the storage shed, where they might be able to house the horses… and then he’s at the gate to the mansion gardens. He lets Roberto and Cottonball free to graze at the grass- he’s sure Skeppy will be furious- before bidding them quick farewells and darting up to the house.

He knocks at the door and heads straight in, knowing his friends well enough to know they both won’t mind, and would hate to come all the way down to open the door.

Once he’s in the atrium, he pauses to listen. He can hear someone out in the kitchen to the left, and some shuffling from upstairs- the mansion isn’t _huge,_ and his hearing is very good. Still, he calls out,

  
  


“Hey, I’m here to check in! Puffy? Bad?”

“Kitchen!” Puffy’s voice comes, and a few moments later, Bad calls down from upstairs,

“We’ll be down in a minute!”

  
  


Dream heads through to the kitchen, where Puffy has just started on another mug of what looks to be tea. He doesn’t particularly care for tea, but he does care for Puffy, and earl grey isn’t the worst tea he’s ever had. (That’d be the lavender and oatflower blend that he’d been forced to drink when he was so tightly wound that he needed to rest. It tasted like old wet socks, but it _did_ chill him out.)

  
  


“Hey,” Puffy greets with a flash of a smile over her shoulder. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, which is fairly unusual regardless for Puffy,  
“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Dream shuffles over to stand beside her and hand her the things she points at obediently, “I, uh… took your advice. About George.”

  
She pauses to turn and grin at him,

  
“How’d it go?”

“I’ve… I’ve never kissed anyone before,” he admits, “Never really had the desire to. I guess I kind of feel like- I mean- I was with them when they were going through their awkward teenage stages. I feel like how they were.” He laughs, awkward but genuine, and Puffy shoulders him affectionately,

“That’s the human experience!” She proclaims brightly, then softens to add effect, “I’m so proud of you, Dream.”

  
He flushes, dropping his eyes to the tea and cookies she’s setting out on plates.

  
“I’m still scared,” he admits, “Maybe even more now than I was.”

“That’s the human experience, too,” she assures, patting his arm, “It hurts, and it’s awful. And it’s the best.”

“Speaking of the best!” Dream startles as he remembers, “Cottonball!”

“What about her?” Puffy’s head cocks, and he sets about explaining the state of the stable and what he’d had to do to get her and Roberto out.

“She’s scratched up, dirty, and spooked, but she’s alive.” He finishes, and Puffy lets out a breath of partial relief.

“She’s in the garden, you said?”

“Yeah. I left a bridle by the door, though it doesn’t exactly fit perfectly.”

“It’s fine, she’ll listen to me without. Thank _God_ she’s not a saddle rider.”

“Poor Roberto,” Dream offers in agreement.

  
It’s unfortunately at that moment that the kitchen door creaks open and Bad enters, Skeppy behind him, fingers laced,

  
“What about Roberto?” Bad asks, blinking in Dream’s general direction. He doesn’t seem to be doing too great on the whole picking out the details thing, and the burn mark across his eyes are still vivid from the sear of light that took his halo.

“Oh- uh,” Dream winces, “The stable was kind of… partially collapsed? Some of the horses were dead, but I managed to get Cottonball and Roberto out. The stable is now fully collapsed, and the horses are in your front garden.”

  
Bad visibly goes through the five stages of grief in the span of a few seconds, letting out a wavering sigh as he pulls Skeppy over to one of the free counters, where the younger man quickly hops up to sit.

  
“At least they’re alive?” It’s only half a genuine question. Puffy shuffles over to hand him a cup of tea, and Dream follows with Skeppy’s.

“Thanks,” Skeppy says as he takes it, voice still kind of hoarse and stilted. Dream nods.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Shit,” Skeppy admits, and out of the corner of his eye, Dream sees Bad’s mouth open to language him and then close again. Apparently, Skeppy is allowed to declare literally dying as _shit,_ which Dream thinks is incredibly fair.

“Talking still hurts? Moving?”

  
Skeppy nods rather than answers, and when he drinks, Dream can see the stress and strain trying to swallow. He smiles sympathetically,

  
“I just dropped by to check in, honestly. I’m going to see Sam and Ant next.”

“Wish them well for us?” Puffy asks, pressing Dream’s cup into his hands. He takes a long drink before answering,

“I will, don’t worry. Are you guys doing okay?”

  
He’s met by a round of silent nods over sips, and Puffy answers aloud,

“As okay as we can be, I think. Punz dropped by this morning whilst the boys were asleep, which was nice- he was worried about us. About you, too.”

  
Dream’s stomach twists. Punz is another of his oldest friends, though they’ve somewhat grown apart partially due to distance, and partially due to Dream’s… blasé attitude toward the dead and the graves out by L’Manberg. The only reason they managed to patch their relationship together at all was that destroying Schlatt’s undead skeleton _did_ save Quackity from a dangerous path of necromantic magic that they would not have been able to stop him stumbling down.

Still. Punz is his friend, and despite everything, Dream loves him. And he knows that Punz is proud of him, of the progress he’s made. It’s odd, that he finds himself craving that pride, _wanting_ to be better, to prove he’s shifted from the person he hates that he once was.

  
“Is- is _he_ okay?”

“Worried,” Puffy repeats with a faint smile across the top edge of her cup, “You know him. He cares more than he lets on.”

“I do,” Dream agrees, and drinks instead of thinking too hard about it.

  
He leaves them not long after, not questioning the way that Bad sidles over toward the counter and pulls the little stepping stool over to sit on so he can rest his head on Skeppy’s thigh, or the way that Skeppy’s hand threads through his hair in response. 

Puffy pulls her coat on at the door,

  
“I need to go and see how Ant and Sam are anyway. Mind if I tag along?”

  
“Not in the slightest,” Dream smiles at her, and the two of them set off together in the direction of Sam's house.  
  
  
  


Back at the cottage, George is on his third bowl of stew when the door opens. That means it can only be Dream or Sapnap, since everyone else knocks.

He turns his head, smiling around a mouthful of soup as Sapnap enters. He’s covered in patchy bruises, and none of them look like the good kind that would come from spending the night with Q and Karl.

  
  


“Hey,” Sapnap greets, shifting in. Behind him is a face George hasn’t seen in a while, ducking so that his head leaves dont graze the doorframe, and goggles set atop his head, indenting the pink hood. Even in midsummer, he still wears the scarf.

“5up,” George greets, setting the bowl aside as he sobers from the floaty warmth of the morning, “Hi.”

  
  


He’s not… _familiar,_ per se, with 5up. All his interactions with him have been purely for business, though that’s not to say that George doesn’t appreciate him- after all, it was 5up that facilitated his and Sapnap’s escape through the catacombs. Without him, they’d never have made it unseen.

He’s a mercenary, an old ally, someone that George knows to be both incredibly smart and wildly resourceful, though easy to work with due to his ability to add levity to even the most grave of conversations. The amount of times he can remember being sat, crammed in a small room with Sapnap and 5up, poring over blueprints and feeling his inner rage ramp up slowly only to have it quickly offset by a simple half-joke about symmetry and shapes… he’ll always be grateful for that. If they’d worked with anyone else, he doesn’t know he could have coped.

Still, he doesn’t have the same personal relationship that, say, Sapnap does. Nowhere near the level of Fundy or Tubbo. _Shit,_ 5up even has a _house_ in L’Manberg.

  
  


“Hey,” 5up greets, sending a prickle of tension down George’s spine. That wasn’t _nearly_ cheerful enough.

He looks serious as he steps into the main room, glancing around curiously to give Sapnap the brief moment he needs to shift to sit next to George on the couch.

  
“Don’t know how great this is going to be,” Sapnap says lowly, “So c’mere.”

  
He opens his arms, and George visibly hesitates for a long moment before crawling into his embrace. He’s manhandled to be sat basically in Sapnap’s lap, which does absolutely nothing to ease his nerves- quite the opposite. Sapnap is trembling finely under him, and the grip of his hug is just slightly too tight to be casual.

  
“What’s wrong?” George asks, a hint of terrified thunder under his tongue. 5up glances at Sapnap for almost permission before flumping to sit, cross-legged, on the floor, setting one hand against the rug to ground himself.

“So… Callahan says hello,”

  
That alone is enough to make George inhale sharply. 5up’s face is radiating guilt.

  
  


“He’s- okay- he contacted me a couple of weeks back, when I was out in El Rapids doing work. Said it was urgent, so of course, I came- royals pay so well. He- wow, how do I… make this into words?”

“Take your time.” George assures, but his voice is flat and not reassuring in the slightest. 5up’s _job_ is to be good with his words, able to sell sawdust to a lumber mill if the contract demands it. He’s obviously stressed, here, and all professionalism has gone out of the window. This isn’t the infamous mercenary sat in his main room; it’s their friend. Regardless of how little interpersonal relationship they have.

Sapnap’s arms tighten around him.

  
“He’s been looking into divination magic, sort of like what Wilbur can do, except studious rather than inherent. It gives him more control over what he looks for, so he- he knows about L’Manberg, and I think he’s been looking in on you. That’s how he knew that something big would be happening last night.”

“He knows about L’Manberg?” George asks, alarmed, and finds Sapnap pulling him closer. He acquiesces, knowing fine well that this is more for Sapnap’s benefit and being more than willing to offer some of the comfort the younger man gives him back.

“Mhm,” 5up nods, “I think- I mean, I _know_ Callahan knows where it is. I don’t know about the rest of your family- I doubt he’d tell them, you know Callahan.”

  
It’s true. George and Callahan were more like brothers than cousins growing up, nurturing their magical talents in private, quietly, secretly. Callahan never had the inherent magic in his blood the same way George does, no conduit in his soul, and it had broken his heart that he couldn’t do the same things that George could.

But he found his own path, in the black opal and careful readings and studies and books even he couldn’t collect from the royal library, but _George_ could.

In reading about wizardry, he’d managed to teach George how to control his own magic, how to harness and shape it through the use of various druidic foci. It’s Callahan that George has to thank for not starting wildfires on hunting trips.

Callahan is better than him, braver than him, and it’s hard to make a mute man talk. George trusts that any secrets Callahan has will be locked tight behind his tongue and his hands.

  
“He’s gotten stronger. Taller, too.” 5up offers, to George’s faint wince. Abandoning Callahan in that place had ruined him, shattered his heart. But like 5up, they wouldn’t have escaped without Callahan.

Illusions always were his strong suit.

“I miss him,” George admits, leaning in to lay his head on Sapnap’s shoulder, the way they used to as teenagers hiding out in warehouses in El Rapids whilst Dream hunted or thieved their next meal. The way that Sapnap holds him is still the same, too, with one hand on his shoulder and the other curved around his thigh to stop him slipping away.

It’s hard to believe that George is the older one, sometimes. So used to being pampered that even now he forgets he isn’t a prince anymore.

“He misses you, too. Your father is on his way out, though.” 5up’s words have an edge that make George’s head turn quickly to him, squinting.

“On his way out? How?”

  
Silence. 5up avoids his eyes.

There were other things that Callahan took interest in. Sabotage and subterfuge- how else would he have contact with 5up or the underworld hiding within the walls of the kingdom?  
Too many times, George had frowned his way through a casting with powdered silver to expunge a poison from Callahan’s body after a mistake in which he’d touched one of his ingredients wrong.

Finally, it seems, Callahan has found a way to make a poison invisible, undetectable. How he’s managed to tailor it to only target the king and not his tasters, George has no idea, but he knows that Callahan would never risk an innocent.

He… he _hopes,_ anyway, that Callahan hasn’t changed so much that lives mean less to him now.

Between them, Callahan was always the one with a heart.  
Birds with injured wings or squirrels and mice stunned in the mouths of the palace cats. There were so many graves for the critters that couldn’t be saved that George started keeping a spoon on hand to dig up earth when Callahan came crying to his room at midnight.

Sapnap’s face is turned against his hair, and he realises that he’s spaced out where he sits for probably too long.

  
“Oh.” He says faintly, and 5up makes an apologetic noise in the back of his throat.

“I just thought- he told me to say hello, and I think you have a right to know what’s- everything else.” 5up stands, and George nods distantly, becoming suddenly and starkly aware of how hard he’s gripping Sapnap’s shirt. And how hard Sapnap is holding him.

“I appreciate it, even if I don’t- yeah.” George says, and 5up does let out a small laugh at that, nodding.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Anyway. Callahan teleported me out here in case I was needed, which is how I know he knows where L’Manberg is. And he paid me to stick around for a couple of weeks, so if you need anything…”

“We know where you are,” George agrees, “Thanks, 5up. Sorry this couldn’t be under better circumstances.”

“Hey, I’ll take any chance to see Fundy,” 5up shrugs, “Speaking of, I’m heading home. You know where to find me.”

“Yeah,” George agrees, “Thank you. See you later,” the last thrown after 5up as he heads to the door, and they receive an absent farewell as the mercenary leaves, closing the door behind him and leaving George and Sapnap clinging to one another in silence.

Minutes pass. Multiple, before Sapnap’s grip even begins to soften, and the moment it does, George bursts into tears. He doesn’t even really know _why,_ it’s not like this is the worst news he’s ever gotten. It’s not even bad news. Callahan coming into power is the best news he could possibly get, and he’s long since lost any love for his father, so _that_ doesn’t bother him.

Leaving Callahan behind, however… that _does_. It always has. Every time he’s reminded of it, he shuts himself down, and only Sapnap is ever able to reach him when he’s like that.

He might only be a couple of inches shorter than the paladin, but the way he curls in on himself as he sobs and hiccups the loss of his childhood and his Callahan, he seems so small. Sapnap shifts until he can lean back into the corner between an arm and the back of the couch, pulling George with him and pattering the same soothing rhythm he uses for Dream into his shoulder.

They don’t speak. They rarely do when they’re like this. When George steps back into the skin of the delicate prince he used to be, and Sapnap picks up the mantle of his protector. The warrior he never should have been, fourteen and fighting for both of their lives in the slums of El Rapids, holding swords he had no right to with armor bearing the emblem of a kingdom that had forsaken them.

  
  
  
  


When Dream comes home an hour and a half later, it’s to George asleep, curled into a ball against Sapnap’s chest. Sapnap is semi-conscious, but snaps awake when the door creaks and the evening breeze blows through.

“Hey,” Sapnap whispers as Dream closes the door and turns back with concern written in his face,

“Hey. What- what happened?”

“Bad… bad? News? To cut it down for you, Callahan paid 5up for a job and teleported him out to L’Manberg because he knows some kind of magic that can see the future and knew we’d need support, and also it sounds like he’s poisoning the king to death.”

“So… Callahan knows about L’Manberg? And where it is?”

“Must do, to teleport 5up.” Sapnap blinks at Dream, eerily calm. Dream comes to kneel by the couch, putting him on eyeline with Sapnap.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sapnap seems genuinely confused, an edge of worry in his voice,

“Last night was… shit. You watched me die. You watched Q die. You ripped out so many feathers you started bleeding. Then you went home with Q and Karl, and as proud as I am, that’s not- that’s not, like, _therapy._ It’s nice, but it doesn’t deal with the real problems.”

A pause. Sapnap blinks, and they’re both surprised to find tears springing to his eyes. He tilts his head back against the couch arm, sighing,

“I don’t know. I mean- it’s not the first time I’ve seen someone die. And I trust you guys to- you know, resurrect people. But seeing Quackity die saving my life, and you- you- you _can’t_ die but it was so… much.”

“I know.” Dream replies. It’s not soothing, it’s not placating, just a firm acknowledgement that it’s true, that it’s real. He leans in to wriggle his head into the space between Sapnap’s shoulder and head despite the strain on his muscles that comes with it.

“I don’t regret any of it,” Sapnap says, and it’s firm. There’s no question behind it, though the way it’s said sounds like he’s said it too many times today, “I was talking to Phil earlier, he said- he said it could have been way worse. Maybe we might not have been able to save everyone.”

“Yeah,” Dream murmurs, closing his eyes. That fear will haunt him for the rest of infinity.

  
  


They’re quiet for a while, just the sound of rhythmic breathing and embers crackling down in the declining light. Eventually, though, Dream has to shift.

  
  


“I believe I promised you all the cuddles you could ever want? If you still want that.” He says, and Sapnap grins brightly at him,

“Of course I still want that, dude. C’mon, let’s go to my room.” And he shuffles, scooping George up to carry him and waking him in the process.

“Mmph… Sap? Oh, Dream,” as he spies his friend, who wiggles his fingers at him. 

“Going to bed,” Sapnap assures, “All of us.”

“That’s nice.” George replies sleepily, nestling back against Sapnap’s shoulder and dropping off again. Dream pushes the doors open and peels back the blankets so the three of them can crawl into bed together, with Sapnap in the centre this time. George is already asleep as he cuddles into Sapnap, gathering handfuls of his shirt to cling ever-harder. Dream shifts up onto one elbow so he can duck down again and kiss Sapnap’s forehead.

“Kind of gay of you,” Sapnap jokes, and Dream laughs at him.

“Shut up.”

  
  


Sapnap snorts, but doesn’t retort, and opens his free arm for Dream to cuddle into. Dream does, dropping down to snuggle into his side, embracing the warmth and safety.

  
  


“I can sleep now, by the way,” he says, voice almost a whisper because it feels wrong to speak any louder. Sapnap makes a noise of curiosity in his throat.

“D’you dream, Dream?”

“Apparently, yeah. Dreamt of you last night.”

“ _Me?_ ” Sapnap says incredulously, and Dream wheezes quietly,

“Yeah. You and George. It was- it was nice. I’d like to do it again.”

  
  


Sapnap squeezes his shoulders.

  
  


“Then go to sleep, dumbass.”

  
  


Dream chuckles at him, but nestles his face in Sapnap’s shoulder and closes his eyes to let himself drift off, with Sapnap following briefly behind him into dreamland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ the poll for the next chapter focus!](https://strawpoll.com/23okhfw6y)!
> 
> If you're reading and you enjoyed it, _please_ leave a comment to let me know! Even something as simple as "<3" really lets me know I'm appreciated, and helps motivate me to keep writing.


	15. Concurrent second - Don't Fight It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Panics song of the same name ("[Don't Fight It](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_cK_cIydHY)")
> 
> We visit Sapnap in the quiet afternoon that follows a night of stress and heartbreak, and in that time, we catch up with a certain pink man, too...

Sapnap wakes in the mid-early afternoon to comfortable warmth and heat against his left side, and gentle shapes being traced into his right hip. He inhales, the faint scent of salt water and warm feathers lingers in the air of the bedroom.

He opens his eyes.

The room is flooded with sunlight, but it shafts over on the opposite side of the room. Only one curtain is opened, sheltering him from the direct light- thoughtful, he thinks.

He shifts slightly to look at Karl. He’s awake, tucked up against his side with an arm slung across his waist, occupying himself with the shapes he’s drawing on Sapnap’s skin under the hem of his shirt. There is, notably, no Quackity, but Sapnap isn’t particularly surprised. Q has always been an early riser, and doesn’t seem able to stay still. Karl vacillates- most of the time he bounces around endlessly, but he at least has the ability to be calm and zone out when he’s comfortable and happy.

 _Happy._ And it is only when he’s happy. When he’s sad, or anxious, or angry, he’s moving, always moving. He’s never still when negativity creeps in, as though he can outrun the darkness creeping at the edge of his mind.

Sapnap grumbles quietly and nuzzles into the top of Karl’s head, which elicits an affectionate chuckle from him.

  
  


“Afternoon,” Karl greets, “Sleep well?”

“Mmph,” Sapnap replies eloquently, turning partially onto his side so he can properly wrap his arms around Karl. That, too, is met with laughter.

“Clingy,” he says affectionately, and Sapnap hums affirmatively.

  
They spend a couple of minutes letting Sapnap wake up, until the sleepy quiet is gently punctured by the door opening and Quackity nudging his way in with a tray of food. It’s not exactly a full breakfast, but it’s obviously an attempt at cooking, and that’s what’s important.

  
  


“Hey,” Sapnap greets as Q pads over to the bed, setting the tray down at the foot where there’s empty space. Sapnap _is_ the tallest of them, and it leaves spare room.

“Hey,” Quackity replies, gesturing to the tray “Food.”

“I can see.” Sapnap opens an arm out, and Quackity rolls his eyes but does come around the bed to crawl into the offered embrace, wings shifting until he finds himself comfortable. The tray wobbles dangerously, but nothing overturns.

  
They share brief kisses, and somewhere in that time, Karl grows hungry enough to leave the warmth of Sapnap for the sweet embrace of what he’s pretty sure are pancakes. Or were meant to be pancakes.

Doesn’t matter, they’re edible and taste okay, so they _are_ going in his mouth.

As he eats, Sapnap stretches out luxuriously, but something in the edge of his movement forewarns a worry he’s trying to figure out how to word.

  
“What’s up?” Quackity decides to prompt him. Who knows if he’d bring it up on his own?

“Just- what d’you guys want to call… this? Where are the boundaries, y’know? I don’t want to run into something with a different end game.”

“Well, figure out where you stand and what you want, we’ll tell you our thoughts, and we work to find a middle ground. Right?” Quackity glances at Karl for the end of his sentence, as though he’s questioning his own logic. Karl nods with a mouthful of pancake.

  
  


Sapnap takes a breath to steady himself.

  
  


“I don’t know, I mean- I haven’t really had the chance to… y’know, build a relationship?”

“George?” Quackity raises an eyebrow,

“That’s a long and complicated story,” Sapnap replies with a nervous laugh, pushing his hand into his hair, “And it was definitely different and not normal.”

“Yeah, weren’t you his knight?” Karl has successfully wolfed down three pancakes and joined the conversation, “Like, at his side all the time?”

“Yeah, exactly. And I don’t think we, like- dealt with whatever that was. It just kind of died out.”

“Oh yeah?” Quackity is wearing a smirk that scares the shit out of Sapnap, “So there’s more you haven’t told us?”

“It’s not entirely my story to tell,” Sapnap says, and it’s half a warning, “Just- I’ve never had anything I wanted to be serious. And I’d- I’d like this- us- to be… serious. I don’t know- I really like you, and I wanna be your- your boyfriend?”

It turns upward at the end, a question with nervousness in every letter, all fear and none of the bravery that the paladin usually bears like a coat of arms. Quackity is the one to reach out, to take his hand and squeeze,

  
“I mean- I want that. You can call me that, at least.”

“Y- Yeah,” Karl agrees, finding Sapnap’s nervousness mirrored in his own voice, “Me too. I’m- I guess I got a bit ahead of myself last night, but if you’re looking for serious, I’d like… y’know… I want you in my future.”

“Absolute wreck,” Quackity mocks affectionately, “So summary- yes, you are our boyfriend, we are your boyfriends, it would be cool if this lasts a long time or forever but we’ll _see_ and no pressure.”

“Right!” Sapnap replies enthusiastically, the fear in his chest simmering down as Karl takes his other hand, “And just ‘cause- well.” There are images flashing through his mind he’d rather push down.  
“Pet names? Or nicknames, I guess?”

  
Quackity’s expression darkens minutely. It’s barely a change, but Sapnap notices it, and has to glance to Karl to make sure he didn’t do anything wrong. Karl shakes his head just a fraction side to side, and Sapnap lets out his tense breath.

  
“I like them,” Karl says to break the surface tension, knowing that Quackity is collecting himself in the silence. They’ve had this conversation too, before their relationship shifted. They don’t have the cleanest history, but he knows his husband, and always has.

“Yeah?” Sapnap still sounds nervous, but there’s hope in his voice, “Are there any you prefer?”

“I like all of them, honestly. I- I tend to use, um… baby boy? Is that okay with you?”

“Baby boy,” Sapnap muses, having to fight to stop himself giggling at the color Karl flushes in reply, “That’s cute.”

  
  
  
Karl only grows redder, silently leaning over to cuddle into Sapnap’s shoulder instead of finding words to reply. In that interim, it seems that Quackity has found his breath,

  
  


“I like most of them,” he admits, “Though honestly, it’s less that I like _them_ and more that I like- well. Karl, and now you.” He gestures as he speaks, and Sapnap can’t fight the affectionate smile,

“Most of them,” He answers, careful to keep the words free of amusement despite the smile, “What should I not call you?”

“Sweetheart,” Quackity answers immediately, “And darling.”

  
  


Sapnap had expected about as much. Even though he’s been gone for almost a year, the scars that Schlatt left in his wake still run so deep in all of them, but none were worse off than Quackity. Being so close to the epicentre, right in the heart- literally. Almost talked into divorcing Karl, controlled so carefully it was as though he were a puppet. There are still nights they all have horrific dreams about the bruises and the light that died from Quackity’s eyes in the days that he took the vice president role.

It’s horrible. And the way that Quackity beats himself up about the things that still haunt him is just as bad. It’s not like he holds it against anyone but himself- when Tubbo flinches at angry shouting, or cowers from flashing lights, Q is the first to reassure him that it’s going to be okay. He doesn’t think he’s weak for having panic attacks when he’s too close to fireworks, or when loud sudden sounds send him scattering for a weapon and crying.

He doesn’t judge Fundy for recoiling when someone grabs his shoulder, or yells too close to him. He doesn’t begrudge any of them for being unable to stand the smell of cigarette smoke, the taste of whiskey, the sound of a drunk laughing boisterously in the streets.

But it’s different when it’s himself. Like he holds himself to a different standard, or doesn’t truly believe he deserves to feel hurt. Every time his breath comes too fast at the flick of ash, he’ll beat himself up. They all know he’s angry that he’ll sometimes hesitate when Puffy comes into a room, because despite the height difference and the wild opposition of temperaments, it’s the curl of the horns that catches his eye first.

  
  


  
“Of course,” Sapnap replies, soft and loving, “How about babe?”

“Babe is fine,” Quackity gives him a brief, tense smile, and Sapnap squeezes his hand gently,

“You okay if I kiss you?”

  
He sees the hesitation in Q’s eyes, the consideration, and quickly adds on a,

  
  


“You don’t have to say yes. It’s okay if you don’t want me to right now.”

  
Quackity lets out a breath, and it shakes in the understanding between them.

  
  


“Not right now. But- but later. When I’m okay.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Sapnap soothes, “We have food to eat anyway, right? I’m starving.”

“Yeah,” Quackity agrees, visibly relieved, reaching for the pancakes. Karl hands the plate over, and the three of them delve into comfortable silence as they eat. Sapnap keeps hold of Quackity’s hand, gentle but firm, and does not pull away first.

  
  
  


They let the afternoon slip by, shifting between cuddles and goofing around, eventually dragging themselves out of bed and downstairs to help clean the kitchen up. It looks like a small bomb exploded in here, though evidently the name of that small bomb was Quackity. He looks deliberately away as though embarrassed when they poke fun at him for it, but they all know it’s not serious, and it’s interspersed with affectionate hugs and the occasional kiss. Sapnap asks every time if it’s okay, and after a point, Quackity has to demand that he shuts the fuck up and he’ll tell him if it isn’t, he promises, please just kiss him.

The warm laughter and love is a bubble of peace in the world, and it is quickly and ruthlessly popped by a rap at the door.

  
  


“Who knocks like _that?_ ” Quackity is the fastest, flitting off to answer as Sapnap is shunted back into reality too-quick. _He_ knows.

“5up,” he answers quietly to Karl as the door opens,

“Oh, hey, 5up,” they hear echoed from the hall.

“Sorry, I’m sure you’re busy,” 5up’s voice reaches them with the summer breeze. Sapnap begins to head for the door, too.

“Little bit, yeah,” Quackity answers without irritation, “What’s up?”

“I really need to talk to Sapnap. Is he still here?”

“Hey,” Sapnap emerges from the main room. 5up’s hood is pulled down in the sunlight, goggles around his neck. Despite the casual vibe of his clothing, 5up’s face is clouded with concern as he turns his gaze to Sapnap.

“I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a rough night…”

“Yeah, but it’s fine. What’s wrong?”

“Is it okay if I come in?” 5up glances at Quackity, who gestures him in the door.

  
They settle themselves in the main room, accompanied by brief glances from 5up to Sapnap to ensure he’s okay with any of this conversation being overheard. He nods solemnly back, a series of silent gestures that come with months of working shoulder-to-shoulder, poring over blueprints of catacombs and plotting the best and least blasphemous routes and places to break walls down. 

  
“I thought you’d be with Fundy,” Sapnap says as they’re all settling into seats, 5up in an armchair, Karl and Q on the couch, and Sapnap sat cross-legged on the floor looking up at 5up. He looks stressed, tired, but he smiles at Fundy’s name,

“Trust me, I’d like to be. But he said you need to know, and he’s probably right…” It comes with a heavy sigh, and he rubs at his temples like that will disperse the pain and tension. It does absolutely nothing of the sort.

“What do I need to know?” Sapnap’s shoulders have drawn, and there’s evident fear in his voice,

“Well, you and George both. But you’re the best person to tell to see if he should know, too.” 5up sighs, and begins the deluge of information, telling Sapnap about being contracted over from El Rapids, about Callahan, about the poison. Sapnap stays quiet for the duration, listening, letting 5up slowly lose more and more of his grip on his professionalism the longer he goes, the longer it’s silent.

  
When he finishes, it’s with a deep inhale that becomes almost a sob. Half of the end of that became just scattered bits about Fundy, and Sapnap struggles to his feet to pad over and settle on the arm of the chair, patting 5up’s shoulder reassuringly.

  
“Yeah, George should probably know. I can tell him, though, if you want to go back to Fundy.”

  
Flashes of the guard curled in his bed pass through 5up’s mind, the warm clash of colors between the pink blanket and the orange sweater. Of course he’d rather be there, but he’d _always_ rather be there. Even when he’s on the other side of the continent in El Rapids, even when he’s working a dirty job with blood on his hands, even when he’s busy slipping a blade between two ribs. Fundy is his favourite person to be around, especially since Hafu and the others are across an actual ocean in his hometown. 

  
There’s not a lot of places that feel like home to a travelling mercenary. He’s lucky in that Fundy is his.

But he shakes his head,  
“No, I should probably tell him. I’m here for a couple of weeks, and this is… important enough.” In the beats of silence, the unspoken concern of being too much for Fundy is glaringly obvious.

“If you think that’s best,” Sapnap offers out, a gentle counterweight. It’s giving 5up the chance to step either way without pressure, giving a silent offer that it’s okay to just go home. 5up chooses not to take that.

“It’s fine, it won’t take long. I’ll be… home, when you’re ready to go.” He stands, glances at Q and Karl, who have incredibly managed to be quiet through the whole exchange,  
“I’m sorry to barge in.”

“Needs must,” Karl answers with a shrug, “Be safe.”

“You too. See you, Sapnap. Bye, guys.” And with a nod, he heads out, leaving Sapnap staring at his back.

The front door closes. Karl is off the sofa immediately to come over to Sapnap, flumping into the armchair and tugging until Sapnap slips off of the arm into his lap. A moment later, and Quackity is on the other side, flapping delicately to settle himself atop the precarious pile of legs and hugs, the three of them fold in on one another affectionately.

  
  


“You okay?” Quackity asks Sapnap, voice barely above a whisper. Sapnap hums.

“I’m fine, I think. It’s worrying, but I trust Callahan. I always have.”

“Just George’s response, then?” Karl’s arm winds around Sapnap’s waist with his words, and he receives a silent nod against his shoulder. 

“We’ve had enough bad news. I don’t want to upset him.” Sapnap sighs, dragging Q down a little so he can feel comfortably squished between the two men. 

“It would be worse if he didn’t know,” Quackity points out, “If he finds out and knows you knew, and didn’t tell him?”

“Yeah, that would ruin him,” Karl agrees, “It’s the right choice.”

  
  


A beat of silence as Sapnap’s mind creaks through sadness and irritation to find the right place to sit.

  
“Human life sucks. I want to be a carrot.”

  
It sends all three of them into laughter, the tension and anger melting back into the sea rather than being horrifying icebergs of pain.

  
Whilst they have the chance to relax, 5up is pattering through the streets of L’Manberg, hood down despite the vague discomfort that comes with it, heading back to his house. The sun is warm, but not searing, which is definitely… a nice break from El Rapids. Then again, with his work, he’s not often out in the harshest hours of sunlight back there. He’s been starting to get kind of sick, without the sun- well, he is at least partially a plant. He has to photosynthesise alongside his usual food unless he wants to eat a disgusting amount of sugar. 

Still, it’s relief to re-enter his home. It’s dusty and quiet and _his,_ his home. He’d opened the windows before he left, banishing the faintly musty smell from the house and filling it with flowery summer breezes. The pollen is thick, and he silently thanks any Gods out there that neither he nor Fundy suffers hayfever.

He removes the hood and hangs it up next to the scarf he’d left abandoned this morning, then stretches out. It’s genuinely wild to him that he has this, a house, rather than being squirreled away in a secret underground room in the sewer. It’s nice to have a bed, too, though he hadn’t slept in it last night.

He makes his way back up to his room where the light is muted by the wave of his patterned curtains. They’re pink with a grid of pineapples at various angles, and he loves them wholeheartedly. Tubbo is an excellent interior decorator, actually.

  
  


Fundy is still asleep, curled up in the top corner of 5up’s bed, against the wall, with a blanket pulled around him. Occasionally, 5up will hear a small snuffle as one of the tassels finds its way directly under his nose again.

  
  
Letting the guard sleep, 5up pads first over to his bookshelf- again, silent thanks to Tubbo- and plucks the book with the most interesting spine. Some old semi-murder mystery from the perspective of one of the murderers, a butler stolen along with a half fortune from his hometown and inducted into what was basically a cult, culminating in a masquerade party that rapidly became a masquerade massacre.

It’s something that 5up has read a number of times, but he still finds it fascinating the way the author portrays both crippling guilt and no remorse in the perspective of the butler. 

He curls up on the foot of his own bed and settles down to read again, smiling faintly with every faint snuffle and sneeze from Fundy as he waits to see which will come first- the chicken (Sapnap) or the egg (Fundy).

  
  


It’s getting dangerously close to the evening when Sapnap finally drags himself out from the warm hold of his boyfriends and kisses them what he hopes is a temporary goodbye. He heads out, leaving Quackity and Karl layered over one another on the couch in a quiet that begins comfortable, but grows wary after a mere few minutes of Sapnap’s absence.

  
“Are you angry?” Quackity breaks it eventually, “Not about Sapnap, but about me… going there to die?”

“Yes,” Karl replies, without hesitation, and sits up to draw himself into his own chest, “I’m- I’m _furious_. You knew it was going to happen. I don’t think it was the wrong choice, but it was still a choice that you made.”

  
A pause. Quackity watches him for a few moments, the way his gaze is unfocused on the floor ahead of him, knees pulled to his chest and rage pulsing faintly in his eyes. Pulsing literal, as it seems with every heartbeat there’s a flicker of red, a shift of color that has become familiar after so long.

  
“I know,” Quackity says eventually, “I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Karl cuts him off quickly, “I know that you’re not.”

“I wasn’t going to. You’re right. I’m not sorry. I made the right choice, and I know I did.”

“Yeah,” Karl fades back again, the pulse of anger lessening,

“But I did choose that. And I knew how it would make you feel. There’s no solution to it, and it’s going to hurt, but I would do it again.”

“And I’d agree with you,” Karl nods, hands tightening into fists in the fabric of his pants, “I’ve seen too many people die irreparably. I’ve lost too many people to my memory. I don’t want you to be the same.”

“I can’t promise I won’t be,” Quackity shifts closer to him, tentative as he touches him. He doesn’t receive any of the signs that Karl would usually give if he didn’t want it, so he continues, pulling him into a hug,  
“I won’t promise anything I can’t keep, and you know I won’t lie to you. But I love you, and I can promise that I’ll always try to come home, even if I need someone else to help bring me back.”

“Like resurrecting you.” Karl says flatly, but he’s burying his face in Quackity’s shoulder,

“Like resurrecting me.” Quackity agrees, and kisses the top of his head.

  
They’re quiet for a while, but comfortably, tucked in together and entangled. The daylight shifts from yellow to warm orange as the sun begins to descend.

  
  


“I love you,” Quackity says as a particular ray warms their thighs, “I’m sorry that I upset you.”

“I love you too,” Karl answers, half asleep against Quackity’s shoulder, “I don’t mind being upset, as long as you come home.”

“I’ll try,” Quackity promises, and despite the constant thrum of energy demanding him to move, he stays still. He sits, and lets Karl fall steadily asleep on him to the rhythm of his heartbeat bumping gently through the air.

  
  
  
  


When Sapnap arrives at 5up’s house, he can tell he’s interrupting. There’s guilt in his throat at the thought, but he knocks at the door anyway.

5up answers the door with his smile sad at the edges and flour smeared across his cheek.

  
“Give me five minutes to get myself together- come in while you wait.” And he stands aside. Sapnap doesn’t have the energy or the will to argue, padding into the main room and sitting on the floor as Fundy pokes his head around the kitchen door.

“Oh, hey, Sapnap,” he greets, ear twitching, “Come to take 5up away?”

“Yeah, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Fundy assures, glancing toward 5up, who’s pulling his tunic on, “The cake needs to cook anyway.”

“You made cake?” Sapnap asks, trying desperately to sound like he isn’t devastated that he’s ruining this moment for them. He must fail to some degree, because 5up laughs in the way he always does when he’s trying to reassure him everything is fine.

“We made a disaster. And he’s right- it’ll take some time to cook. I’m here for a while, there’s no big deal.” He wriggles into the hood, and Fundy comes over to wipe the flour from his cheek, still grinning,

“It really is fine, Sapnap,” it’s thrown over his shoulder and gentle, genuine, “Don’t worry so much.”

  
Sapnap lets out a breath. It’s not quite a sigh, but it’s close enough that Fundy breaks away from 5up to come and knee him in the shoulder.

  
“Don’t huff at me,”

“Don’t knee me!” Sapnap responds with the same energy, but a small smile has made its way onto his face. Fundy drops to crouch beside him, shoving his shoulder,

“What’re you going to do about it?” He teases, and Sapnap laughs at that,

“Absolutely nothing, because if I touch you, 5up will _murder me._ ”

“Isn’t it worth the death, though?” Ah, Fundy never did know when to stop poking the bear. Sapnap springs up and tackles him, knocking him back to the floor. They tussle for a few moments, rolling one another over as the upper hand shifts on occasion, the whole while 5up laughs maniacally at them. After a period of time, Sapnap relents, still bruised and battered from the day before and having reached his cut off point of faint pain.

  
“Alright, alright, you win,” He splays out, Fundy’s knee firmly set in the middle of his chest. Fundy looms above him, grin sharp and proud, tail sweeping across the floor with his excitement at having won.

“That’s what I thought,” Fundy leans back, releasing Sapnap from his pinned position. Sapnap sits up, looking ruffled, and glances toward 5up.

  
He’s perched on the back of the sofa cheerfully, fully dressed in his excursion attire, complete with goggles atop his head.

  
“Oh, you’re- you’re _ready._ ”

“I’ve been ready for three minutes,” 5up replies, smiling brightly. It’s nice, 5up’s genuine smile- eyes crinkled at the edges and a faint flush on his cheeks. Sapnap blushes in embarrassment at being the delay, too busy warring it out with an old friend to notice he’s making 5up wait.

He scrambles to his feet quickly,

  
  


“I’m so sorry,” he garbles, and 5up just laughs brightly at him,

“It’s fine, it was funny. Come on, let’s go.”

“Are we walking?” Sapnap brushes himself down as he wanders over, and 5up shrugs, 

“I mean- if you want to fly, I can do that.”

“Wait wait wait- you can _fly?_ ” Fundy sounds genuinely baffled, so Sapnap is fairly certain it isn’t just him that missed _this_ memo. When did 5up get wings?

“For a bit, yeah. Callahan paid me _well_ for this job,” and he taps what looks like a small set of chains on his hood from which a little emerald dangles and glints in the light. It’s strung between the fastenings of the flaps where he threads his head leaves, and Sapnap had assumed it was just pretty decoration.

“How long for?”

“Uh… should be about three hours. It takes some time to recharge after I use it, which is why I haven’t, yet,” the last directed at Fundy with a nod, answering his unspoken question. Fundy nods back at him.

“And how fast do you fly?” Sapnap is doing mental calculations in his head. On a good day, it takes about three hours to walk from home to L’Manberg, or vice versa. He assumes it’ll be faster, flying, but he’s never attempted it. And he’s not exactly sure he’s going to be in peak form, what with the chunk of missing secondaries and tertiaries in his wings. He’ll be lucky to stay aloft, honestly. The fact he’d pulled so close to his body was probably helpful in this regard, though, and he’s sure they’ll have regenerated somewhat in his sleep. 

5up shrugs at the question,

  
  


“I’ve never flown before, so I couldn’t tell you. We can just see how it goes.”

  
  


Sapnap thinks it over for a few moments, and it’s the dwindling light that convinces him, in the end,

  
  


“Yeah, okay. Let’s try- the sooner I get home, the better.”

“Great!” 5up says brightly, and shuffles over to give Fundy a hug of farewell before he and Sapnap escape into the summer air outside. Tubbo spots them from across the square and waves in greeting, distracted briefly from whatever conversation he’s having with Ranboo. Ranboo follows his eyeline, too, calling a greeting that they return.

  
“Ready?” 5up asks Sapnap, stretching out in the late afternoon light.  
Sapnap just huffs and closes his eyes to summon his wings in a burst of light. 5up grins at him and touches the emerald, murmuring a few quiet words before the emerald glints and illuminates, and a pair of bat-like wings of shimmering emerald light materialise, floating a few inches from his shoulders. He looks over at them, eyebrows raised momentarily before giving them an experimental flap. He clearly underestimated their power, as he rockets a good ten feet off of the ground and has to panic, flapping worriedly. Sapnap has to laugh at him, fluttering up to help right him, steadying him in the air, straightening him out and holding his arms as he tries to calm his flapping.

“Slow and steady,” he advises, twitching to keep 5up in the right position. The panic slowly dies from his eyes as, with Sapnap’s guidance, he learns how to at least not be spinning wildly through the air. It’s met with laughter, both from the two of them, and from Tubbo across the square as he laughs so hard he ends up on the floor, leaning against Ranboo’s leg and clutching at him to stay at least partially upright. 

“Don’t you laugh at me!” 5up calls over at him, and Tubbo is too busy choking on his laughter to rebuke. Sapnap meets it with chuckles anyway,

“Do you think you can try flying?” He asks, keeping one steadying hand at 5up’s elbow,

“No time like the present!” 5up replies brightly, and then with slightly more anxiety behind it, “Please don’t go too far.”

“I’ll be right here,” Sapnap assures, tentatively removing his hand. When he’s assured himself that 5up at least won’t crash to the floor, he begins in the direction of his home.

  
  
  


It takes them about an hour. It’s fairly obvious they’re both capable of being fast fliers, but the pain and the uncertainty keeps them from going at full speed. They have to stop and hit the floor on occasion, walking whilst Sapnap eases his muscles or 5up recollects himself after a spinout. 

But they do make it, eventually, to the clearing. Sapnap begs a brief pause before the tension to make his way over to the pond and kneels, smiling down into the water.

Mars comes swimming over, a rare opportunity for the fussy fish, turning circles of greeting under the water. Moment behind him, Beckerson bobs his way to the surface, demanding attention.

  
  


“Hey, guys,” Sapnap greets, quickly rinsing off his fingertips to pet Beckerson’s head. He doesn’t take too much more petting for the day, more a greeting than anything, before he swims back off for the shadows.

5up comes to his shoulder,

  
  


“Your fish are very friendly.” He comments, and Sapnap nods,

“Beckerson has always been like this. Mars took some time to warm up to us- I’m his favourite, though.”

“Of course you are.” 5up pats Sapnap’s shoulder warmly, no trace of sarcasm in the comment. He glances over at the house.  
“Are you ready for this, though?”

Sapnap sighs and stands, wiping his damp hand off on his pants.

“No.” He answers, and they head inside.

  
  
  
  


When 5up emerges after unleashing the deluge of information onto poor George, he feels… surprisingly lighter. He stretches out as he re-materialises the wings, finding himself impatient to return home. He hopes Fundy isn’t on watch tonight. He hopes he’s still there, in his house.

He’s a little reckless with the speed he flies, almost crashing into multiple birds, and he does at one point draw the ire of something he definitely shouldn’t. In the evening light, he could see that the strange, misshapen eagle was reluctant to emerge, but he saw its eyes on him.

He’s had enough experiences with these punched-out holes of reality to know that leaving it alive would only incite panic when it follows his scent to L’Manberg later on. Taking care of it by himself would be a chore, but… keeping Fundy and the others safe is worth it. 

He descends, already withdrawing the scimitars from their places hidden under his tunic, green trails of light brightening across their blades. 

The eagle sees the fight coming and braves the sunlight to get the first strike, rocketing up from the ground and crashing into 5up with such suddenness that he doesn’t have time to prepare himself before he’s knocked aside and winded, hurtling toward the treetops. He panics through his daze, flapping twice, hard, and though he doesn’t regain his balance, at least it hurts less when he tumbles through the branches.

The eagle follows him down, narrowly missing landing directly atop him. He rolls aside just in time, scrambling to his feet as he observes his enemy.

Like most of the necrotic beasts, its form is almost recognisable as an eagle, if that’s what you’re trying to see. The fact that it can fly is some sort of dark miracle, with its body bulbous in places it shouldn’t be and its face eyeless, blank but for jutting spikes of what looks to be bone, stark off-white against the black flesh. The whole body is covered in small feathers, dark black and not reflective in the slightest, almost absorbing the dapples of sunlight.

Its wings span twice the length of its body, some kind of feathered dragon-like structure with a base of flesh and a layer of feathers, almost like an afterthought. The talons and the beak match, hooked at the end and inky-black.

It turns to him as he’s looking it over, trying to pick out any kind of weak spot.

It lunges, trying to take a bite, and he dodges out of the way and spins a scimitar down on the backswing, taking a slash right down one side of the too-muscled neck. Out spills a strange ochre liquid that smells foul, but at least this one doesn’t burn when you touch it like so many of them do. 

It takes the Eagle a touch too long to turn its clumsy, large body, and 5up is nimble- he darts in a circle, staying at the edge of its vision, until he can stamp on the writhing tail and run up the spine. The stamp will ensure that the tail remains mostly useless- he has been on the receiving end of more than a few nasty whips from these things, and they have almost a mace-like ball of bony spikes at the end that cause too much damage. 

He manages to keep his balance despite the way the thing shakes, and he plunges the scimitars into the back, one either side of the spine with their curved edges inward and scissors, levering them outward.

The Eagle screeches and writhes, the sudden sharp pressure on the _underside_ of the spine both painful and debilitating, 5up keeps his grip tight and weight heavy as he presses, presses, knowing his blades can take it. Eventually, something will have to give, and that something turns out to be the Eagle’s spine.

  
With a sickening, slick slurping crunch, the blades finally bite right between vertebrae and cut through with a pulse of spring green magic. The Eagle screeches, but falls limp, not dead but on its way out and paralyzed with the severing of its nerves. 5up sighs heavily, catching himself upright on the splayed, twitching wing.

  
“Ew,” he says as he wipes the blades clean of ochre blood on the lower half of the Eagle’s body. It screeches, fainter now, and he takes pity on it.

A few steps to its head, he settles one scimitar over where he assumes an artery to be in the neck, a soft part that would be guarded fiercely by beak and talons if the thing still had the ability to move.

He pushes down with all his weight, carving out a space for the blade and then yanking forward, crunching through the windpipe and sending a spout of blood across the forest floor. The twitching, the screeching, the breathing- it all stops a few moments after that. He wipes the blade off again. 

It’s getting too dark now for it to be safe to be out much longer. He doesn’t look back as he takes to the sky and rushes home, careful to keep an eye out for any more beasts despite knowing the Eagle’s territorial nature means that it’s incredibly unlikely.

Still, where one dies, another takes its place too-soon after. He knows this, too.

When he lands on the boards outside his home, he’s splattered with Eagle blood and the scimitars are still out, still in his hands. The door opens before he can reach the handle, and Fundy tugs him inside with worry evident in his eyes,

  
“Did you fight something? _Alone?_ ”

“I didn’t even get hurt,” 5up replies with a rasp of a laugh, and Fundy hits him. Gently, but hits him in the shoulder,

“That’s still so stupid. What if you’d gotten hurt- change out of those clothes, you smell _awful._ ”

“I, uh,” 5up realises with startling speed, “I actually don’t have any spares. This was all very last minute.”

  
Fundy blinks at him.

  
“Take it off and get it in the washing basket,” he demands, storming past him for the door, “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  
Off he goes. 5up knows better than to argue- sure, Fundy would likely relent eventually, but it’s so much easier to just acquiesce to his desires when they’re not _that_ bad.

He strips down, plonking his clothes in the basket and carefully removing the necklace that he’d been given to summon his wings. The green has all but disappeared, leaving a colorless crystal in its wake, and he sighs as he puts it on. 

He swaddles himself in one of the big-ass blankets from his bed and heads back down to wait. It takes Fundy a few more minutes before he comes in the door, one hand over his eyes, clutching a pile of various clothes.

  
“5up?” He calls despite the fact that 5up is sat quite cosily on the couch, maybe ten feet from him.

“I’m here, and I’m decent enough. Hi!” 5up replies cheerily, and Fundy nudges the door closed behind him, taking his hand from his eyes.

5up wiggles at him in greeting, hands preoccupied keeping the blanket tight around him.

“Don’t make fun of my fashion,” Fundy warns as he drops the clothes at 5up’s side,

“Only when you’re not being a sweetheart,” 5up teases right back, “Thank you. Turn around.”

  
Fundy heads into the kitchen instead, closing the door behind him to give 5up some privacy as he shuffles himself into Fundy’s borrowed clothes. He really _should_ be poking some kind of fun at his friend’s fashion choices, but at least the clothes are clean and comfortable, even if they are all shades of orange, brown, and black. Not the most complimentary for a _plant_ color scheme, as 5up is, but hey. He’s not going to complain when he’d be buck-ass naked otherwise.

  
“I’m good,” he calls once he’s dressed. Fundy has given him some spare pants and shirts, too, which he thinks is sweet if unnecessary- he can drop a note out to Callahan tomorrow and get something offered to him. 

  
The kitchen door cracks open, and Fundy peeks through to ensure that 5up is, in fact, good before he opens it properly and comes padding in. He has a plate in his hands, and the “cake” sits atop it. It’s less a proper cake and more like a sugary baked mess, with a scattering of berries on top as though that will make it any better.

Still, he comes over and sits beside 5up on the couch, offering out a dull dinner knife,

  
“Care to do the honors?”

“Don’t mind if I do.” 5up laughs, and takes the knife, cutting two slices of their fun little disaster that they both choose one of and tuck in.

  
Despite the lumpy, kind of fucked up mess that they’d made, it doesn’t taste half bad. And the berries help to offset the dryness of it.

The dark of the night comes creeping in, and with it comes a quiet that hurts more that it comes comfortable. Fundy lights the oil lantern and stokes the fireplace, returns to the couch.

  
“You’re here for how much longer?” He asks, and his voice is quiet, afraid. 5up smiles sadly,

“About two weeks. Duty calls, and I go where I’m paid.”

“Why not just- stay here? You have a house, you could _live_ here. In L’Manberg.”

“My job, Fundy.” 5up sounds sad, tired, he tucks his chin into his hand, “I miss you when I’m gone, but I have to do what I’m paid to.”

“What- what if I paid you?” Fundy turns to him, eyes wide, desperate, “What would I have to pay you to stay here? To stop going out there and risking your life, being an assassin or whatever? How much money do I have to give you to just be _safe?_ ”

  
5up blinks at him, surprised. It’s rare to see Fundy so genuinely enthused and desperate about anything. He never expected to see this passion about _him._

  
“That’s- I don’t- _Fundy,_ ” it comes with exasperation,

“If you lived here, why would you need money like what you’re paid? I can- I’d find a way to pay you, if that’s what you want. But-”

“Hey,” 5up reaches out, trying to keep his voice soothing as he sets his hand on Fundy’s arm, “Breathe.”

  
Fundy does, taking in a breath that shakes,

  
“Everyone here is my friend, and I care about them, and I love them. And I care about you, and I miss you, and I love you, too. The difference is that the others don’t run headlong into danger every day. They don’t live on the other side of the continent. I can see them. I can touch them. They’re _real._ ”

“I’m real, though,” 5up assures, “I just- hm. I guess, I’ve been a mercenary for so long, I don’t think I know how to not be that. I can’t just _quit,_ it’s not about the money.”

  
Fundy buries his face in his hands.

  
“But…” 5up trails, squishing Fundy’s arm, “I can look into cutting back. You’re right- living here, I wouldn’t have to work as much. And I miss you, too, when I’m gone! All of you. Tubbo- it’s so weird, every time I see him, he seems to have grown up so much. I’m so proud of him.”

“Mister cup,” Fundy whispers, smiling behind his palms, and 5up laughs at that,

“Mister cup,” he agrees, “I’ve started calling myself that in my own head. He’s honestly infectious. So yeah, I can’t just… stop, but maybe I can live here more often. Call it a half-year job.”

“Good.” Fundy exhales hard into his hands, “I- thank you.”

  
5up squeezes again,

  
  


“You’re one of my favourite people, Fundy. If it’ll make you happy to have me here more, I’ll be here more.”

  
There’s a pause.

  
  


“Have you… heard from Hafu lately?”

  
5up hesitates before he answers, keeping his words careful and tone even,

“It’s been a while, but it’s not easy to get messages overseas. None of them are magic in the same way Callahan is. I don’t doubt that they’re fine, even if I’m worried about them.”

“When the kingdom cleans up, when Callahan is in power, we should set up… I don’t know. Teleportation. Some kind of quick method of travel, so you can go and see them.”

“I’m sure he would, if I asked, honestly,” 5up smiles wistfully, “But I don’t want to ask so much. I know it’s hard.”

“It’ll be easier one day,” Fundy assures, lifting his face from his hands to look 5up in the eye, “Even if we have to make it easier ourselves.”

“Even if.” 5up agrees, and reclines against the sofa, closing his eyes, smiling, “Wake me if you need to leave?”

“You got it.” Fundy assures, and pulls the blanket up to toss over him, settling himself on the floor, leaning against the sofa, where he begins to play chess against himself whilst 5up slips away to sleep in the summer night.

  
Crickets chirp outside, and owls hoot overhead in the promise of peace, however distant, coming steadily toward them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha surprise 5up is here too. i fuckgign love the pink man. 
> 
> And as usual, [You can vote for who the next chapter should be about right HERE!](https://strawpoll.com/ur28p33sx)
> 
> Fun fact at about 2500 words i checked the count for this chapter and went "ah im almost done, guess this will be a shorter chapter! and then it suddenly exploded into 7200ish words. woops.


	16. Concurrent third - I Could Die In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from Cold Weather Company's song, "[Wide-Eyed](https://open.spotify.com/track/67AmB2gk9L41eVSy590o1v)"
> 
> Puffy has given Bad some advice, so in the quiet, he takes it.

In the early morning aftermath of a battle for the world, Bad watches the door close behind Puffy, scooting across the bed to Skeppy’s side,

  
  


“Hey, Skeppy,” he says, voice quiet, “Are you awake?”

  
  


Skeppy’s eyes open despite the obvious pain, and Bad smiles sympathetically. It seems that something in the evening has changed the poor man, his eyes now permanently stuck in the phase they become when he’s doing magic, where the deep brown-black fades away and his irises become pupilless pools of diamond shards, cyan and reflective and shifting with the flickering lamplight.

  
  


“Bad,” Skeppy’s voice is still rough and stiff, but he manages to smile for his best friend. Bad hushes him,

“You don’t have to talk if it hurts! Here,” He slips his hand into Skeppy’s, squeezes, “Now you can just squeeze. And if I ask questions, one squeeze is no, two is yes! Okay?”

  
  


There’s a moment of pause in which Skeppy blinks at him, but then his fingers twitch faintly, squeezing twice, confirming that he understands. Bad smiles, nestling himself down next to him.

  
  


“We should probably- we should talk,” Skeppy croaks hoarsely, and Bad hums in reluctant agreement,

“Yeah. But- later. No-” As Skeppy’s expression shifts to one of dubiousness, “I promise! Later- I’m not saying that to avoid it. I’m just- you can’t talk very well right now. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  
Skeppy lets out a sigh, but acquiesces, closing his eyes as Bad makes himself comfortable, shoulder-to-shoulder with him despite the swathes of room in the king-sized bed. Skeppy has never done anything by halves, and it’s not like money was an issue- he wanted a big-ass bed, so he got one. There’s easily room for four people to sleep comfortably on this mattress, and yet here Bad is, shimmied up against his shoulder.

And still not close enough.

  
  


“Closer,” Skeppy murmurs, and Bad glances over at him. His eyes are still closed, their fingers still intertwined, but even with limited motion he’s trying to tug Bad in.

“You want me to- can I cuddle you?” Bad rearranges the words as they come, and Skeppy squeezes his hand twice, enthusiastic almost despite the exhaustion. Bad shifts, untangling his fingers from Skeppy’s despite the faint whine so that he can rearrange the two of them somewhat. He lays on his side, chin propped on Skeppy’s shoulder with an arm loose around his own waist, and reaches over to tangle his fingers with his friend’s once more.

“This okay?” He asks, quiet right next to Skeppy’s ear. He can see the smile, and he can assume, but he wants confirmation.

  
Skeppy squeezes his hand twice.

Bad exhales, tail snaking over to wrap itself idly around Skeppy’s ankle, and he relaxes into the warmth, letting himself drift to sleep.

  
  


“Wake me up if you need me,” He says, quietly, and Skeppy squeezes his hand twice. More quiet as he slips further and further away, and somewhere in the haze, he hears Skeppy quietly murmur his name and hums.

“...Love you, Bad.”

  
He doesn’t so much hear the words as he does feel the soft affection in them, in the sleepy warmth and quiet of the coming dawn. They fall asleep together, the air still, their breath gentle in their chests.

  
  


They wake much the same way. Bad is the second to come to, swimming through the haze of sleep into the waking world. Skeppy still has an arm around him, fingers crawled up under the back of his shirt to set his fingertips to the bottom edge of the burns on his shoulders. At first, as he’s gathering his wits, Bad thinks it might be another weird, sexual joke thrown at him because he knows Skeppy will do those sorts of things on occasion just to watch Bad’s faint discomfort. They’ve been together long enough that he usually knows where to stop, though, and it’s that thought that gently pushes him to realise that oh-

It’s not part of a joke or a jape.

It’s grounding and guilt, evident in the way his fingers gently sweep back and forth over the scars, rhythmic and worried in the calm.

  
“Heya,” Bad greets quietly. At some point in the night, he’s settled his head on Skeppy’s chest, and he can hear the soft bump-bump of his heartbeat against his ear. The whole worry about Skeppy’s lack of clothing can come later, and such will be the curse of resurrection. It’s not like they’d paused the night before to put _clothes_ on him, just wrapped him in blankets and called it good enough.

He feels Skeppy turn his face against his hair,

  
“Hi,” He murmurs back. His voice is still stilted and croaky, but he seems to be less tense than last night. His movement comes easier, his breath stutters less, and he’s very, very affectionate. As best he can, he’s pulling Bad against him, wriggling closer, not bothering to be careful now he knows Bad is awake.

“Feeling better?” Bad asks, stifling a giggle as Skeppy’s fingers ghost between his shoulder blades again, ticklish. 

“Mm. Little bit,” Skeppy says softly, “Talking is still weird.”

“You don’t have to if it feels bad,” Bad chides, shifting to tilt his head up so he can look at Skeppy, frowning a little. Skeppy smiles at him, ducking to rest his forehead against Bad’s,

“It’s fine,” he assures, “Just feels weird.”

“If you say so…” Bad trails off, closing his eyes to relax into the soft, affectionate warmth of the moment. Skeppy’s fingers press gently into the burns across his back, and he hisses gently.  
They’re not like true burns, not exactly. His wings had burnt off, scarred, and healed all within the few seconds it took to offer the sacrifice over. They’re not fresh burns, more like a few weeks old, so it doesn’t hurt to touch them… not physically, at least.

  
“You really gave up your wings for me,” Skeppy says, and the amusement is gone from his voice. It’s guilty sadness, now, just soft hurt, “You love flying.”

“I love you more,” Bad counters without pausing for breath, “I don’t care about flying, as long as you’re with me.”

  
Skeppy is silent. Weird, especially seeing as he’s so rarely even quiet. Bad sets a hand against his chest, brushing his fingertips over his collarbone, feeling his heartbeat under his palm,

  
“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just- your _wings,_ Bad. And your halo. Am I really worth that?”

  
He opens his eyes to meet Bad’s, cyan crystalline to bleached-out white-green, and Bad presses down gently with his hand,

  
  


“You’re worth everything to me. I’d trade everything I have for you. You know that, right? I’d trade my life for yours?”

“Don’t do that! Fuck,” Skeppy’s breath stutters, and Bad smiles slightly,

“Language,” he chides, but it’s gentle, and it makes Skeppy giggle despite the tension. Good. They share a few soft breaths, relaxing into the morning, before Skeppy breaks it again,

“We should talk…” It’s said ruefully, regret in every syllable. Bad almost winces.

“Do we need to? You already know, right?”

  
A moment’s pause, hesitation, fingers still against the scars on Bad’s shoulder blades.

  
  


“I think so,” he says, like an admission, “But do you? And we should… talk about it, right?”

“What if we didn’t, though? I don’t want anything to change,” Bad turns to rest his face against Skeppy’s shoulder, avoiding his eyes, “I don’t want you to leave.”

“What makes you think I’m going to _leave?_ ” Skeppy says, with a little bit of an incredulous laugh that immediately becomes a wince and a couple of coughs of pain.

“Well… this,” Bad lifts his hand from Skeppy’s chest to gesture at just, the whole two of them, “This is good, right? I don’t want to make it weird. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Skeppy blinks at the top of Bad’s head as it processes and dawns on him.

“Bad… I mean this in the most loving way, but you’re _so stupid._ ”

  
  


“What!” Bad lifts his head indignantly, flushed red, face scrunched up, “I’m _not_ stupid! I’m just trying to be a- a good _friend!_ ”

“I don’t _want_ you to be my friend, Bad!” Skeppy replies hotly, frowning, voice strangled over the volume, and Bad recoils. Well, shit. That’s not what he wanted.

“See?” Bad says quietly, slipping out of Skeppy’s grip despite the grabby hands the younger man makes for him, “That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it. I’m good at pretending, Skeppy. I never wanted-”

“You’re _so dumb,_ Bad!” Skeppy interrupts, and before Bad can spiral further, “I just misspoke! You are my friend, my best friend, and I don’t _just_ love you- I’m in love with you!”

  
  


Silence. Struck dumb, Bad stares at him for a few long seconds, then,

  
  


“Oh,” he says, quietly, and comes crawling back under the covers to nestle against Skeppy’s side. Skeppy lets out a heavy sigh of relief and winds his arms around him, tight, pulling close.

“I thought you knew,” he says softly as Bad settles his face against Skeppy’s shoulder again, “I thought you’d always known. I’ve always loved you.”

“I… I didn’t,” Bad’s voice is small, guilty, “I always just thought you were- I didn’t know it wasn’t… platonic.”

“It wasn’t _just_ platonic,” Skeppy corrects, “Because it’s both. You’re still my best friend. I just want you to be my boyfriend, too.”

“Oh,” Bad says again, “Oh. Okay. I- I like that.”

“Yeah?” The smile is audible in Skeppy’s voice, and Bad can’t help smiling back,

“Yeah.” He confirms. He settles his head against Skeppy’s shoulder, careful to avoid poking his friend with his horns, and they lay in quiet for a while as they just… absorb the moment, the words, what it all means.

  
After a while of quiet, they hear scuffling from downstairs, a knock at the door and Dream’s voice echoing through the hallway from the atrium,

  
“Hey, I’m here to check in! Puffy? Bad?”

  
They hear Puffy’s voice from the floor below, too muffled to make out words, and Bad leans up on an elbow to call back,

“We’ll be down in a minute!”

  
Whatever either of them have said seems to satisfy Dream, as they hear the dull thud of the front door closing, and then quiet. He’s likely headed out to find Puffy, then.

How late had they woken up that Dream is here to _visit_ before they’re out of bed?

Bad looks at Skeppy for a moment, the question unsaid but shared, and they both devolve quickly into giggles as Bad clambers out of bed,

  
  


“Okay, okay. Don’t keep him waiting, ya muffinhead, let’s get dressed.”

  
  


He goes for the door, and Skeppy whines,

  
“ _Nooo,_ don’t go!”

“I need to get clothes from my room!” Bad chides right back, and flits over to boop Skeppy’s nose, “And then I’ll be back in case you need help.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Skeppy drawls, drawing the _i_ out to a ridiculous length that Bad chuckles at as he slips out of the room.

A few hours of rest has done wonders for his muscles, Skeppy thinks as he creaks out of bed and to his cupboard. It still hurts, it’s still awkward and a little tense, but he _can_ move now. Still, he doesn’t want to deal with forcing himself into tight clothes, so he settles for sweatpants and a larger sweater.

By the time Bad returns, Skeppy is perched at the end of his bed, watching the door intently. He gets up too fast and stumbles, making Bad dart in to catch him quickly, chirruping with worry,

  
  


“Whoa! Calm down, are you okay?”

“Just too quick,” assures Skeppy, righting himself with Bad’s support, “Missed you.”

  
  


Bad laughs at him. Skeppy pouts.

  
  


“Muffinhead.” Bad says, firm, with no room for argument. He threads his fingers through Skeppy’s and turns to pull, “C’mon, they’ll be waiting for us.”

  
  


They head out, wandering down to the kitchen where they can hear Puffy and Dream’s muffled conversation.

They’re quieter in the company of their friends, but for quiet murmured thanks when they’re handed cups of tea. Bad restrains himself from languaging Skeppy when he describes dying as _shit,_ because honestly? Yeah. That sounds mild, really.

Bad is quietly concerned about Roberto, and as he settles to set his head to Skeppy’s thigh, Skeppy finds himself thinking about how he’s going to fix that.

He might not always get along with the otherwise-friendly horse, but Bad loves Roberto so much. And he’d do anything for Bad.

Dream and Puffy bid them quiet goodbyes as they head out, leaving the two of them in the kitchen alone in silence. Bad sips his tea awkwardly, unwilling to move. Skeppy crunches through the cookies, deep in thought, one hand threaded through Bad’s hair.

Eventually the tea and cookies are finished, and the duo retreat to the main room, where the aquarium fish are flitting around cheerfully. It looks as though they’ve already had their upkeep this morning- bless Puffy- so they’re quite happy to just be as Bad flumps out on the sofa and opens his arms to find Skeppy collapsing on top of him.

  
  


“You okay?” Bad asks as Skeppy nestles his face into Bad’s shoulder, making himself comfortable in the folds of his sweater.

“Mhm. Tired, though,” Skeppy half-complains, and Bad laughs at him.

“Did dying take it out of you?”

“Yeah. Exhausting.” Skeppy folds his arms across Bad’s collarbone to pillow his chin on, strewn out and entangled together, he closes his eyes and lets the warm afternoon light stream across them from the glass wall. Bad settles a hand on his lower back and lets him rest.

Does it get boring, sat there with Skeppy asleep on his chest, unable to move with nothing else to pull his attention? A little. He won’t lie and say it isn’t, or that he isn't fiddling with the loose threads of Skeppy’s sweater to give himself something to do, but his love outweighs his boredom.

Besides, the nap doesn’t last terribly long. About an hour, if that, before Skeppy stirs and yawns widely, cracking open an eye to meet Bad’s. Bad smiles at him, despite his inability to really see details. The light doesn’t exactly help, hazing over his vision, but it doesn’t bother him. Hopefully, his eyes will recover over time. If not- well. He’ll live. 

  
  


“Sleep well?” He asks, surprised by how soft his voice is. Skeppy hums affirmatively.

“Yeah. Do you need me to move?”

“No, this is okay.” Bad assures, pressing his fingertips into Skeppy’s back to anchor his point. Skeppy makes a noise of approval, and falls quiet, watching the fish in the aquarium dart around, chasing one another’s tails. Bad, in turn, watches Skeppy’s face. The way his expression will shift minutely, nose scrunched up during a particularly tight chase, the joy in the slight smile when the dynamic shifts and the chaser becomes the chased.

Eventually, Skeppy notices Bad’s attention on him and shifts to look at him instead,

  
  


“What?”

“Nothing,” Bad replies, pressing his fingertips down against Skeppy’s back again, “Just watching you.”

  
  


Skeppy laughs, a little half-wheeze in the pain of it, but his muscles are slowly relaxing. It’s getting easier to move, to speak, to be.

  
  


“Hey, when you said earlier- you said you’d trade your life for mine, Bad?”

“Mhm!” Bad replies cheerfully, though his tension is evident in the handful of Skeppy’s sweater he takes, “I would. You seemed upset about it.”

“Yeah, I am. I don’t want you to do that. I want you to _live,_ even if I don’t! I’d trade _my_ life for _yours._ ”

“You kind of already did.” The cheer dissipates from Bad’s voice, replaced with grave seriousness, “That’s- that’s what you did yesterday.”

  
  
  


When Skeppy had snagged the sword first and told Bad to run for help, they both knew it wasn’t because Skeppy is better at fighting. Bad is the better fighter of the two of them, Skeppy faster than he is but less precise. By all logic, it would have been better to send Skeppy.

But they’d seen what they were facing. They knew that whichever of them went in to fight, they weren’t coming back. They knew they were choosing death to give the other a chance.

When Skeppy told him to run, between the lines, they both knew he didn’t mean to go for help like he did. He meant _run_ , for his life. Nothing that big, that terrifying, would leave anything but death in its wake.

“I know,” Skeppy says, quiet despite himself, “And I’d do it again. And again. A thousand times over, if it keeps you safe. If it keeps you alive.”

“I don’t want to keep seeing you die, though,” Bad frowns, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“Rather me than you,” Skeppy shrugs, “Because I wouldn’t be able to do what you did. I wouldn’t be able to get to Dream’s place so fast, or shelter Sam and Ant like you did.”

“You saw that?” Bad looks at him with wide eyes. In the wreckage of the barn, when he’d been unable to control his form and become a writhing beast of smoke and emotion, he’d taken Ant and Sam under his wings as the rubble rained flame down like death from the heavens. Skeppy nods, and Bad’s face crinkles.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t protect you.”

“You did the right thing,” Skeppy assures him, wriggling an arm out from under himself so he can set his hand against Bad’s cheek, smiling when he leans into it.  
“Besides, if it came to resurrecting you instead of me… I don’t think I’d be able to. You’re everything I have to lose, and I’d already lost you.”

“Skeppy…” Bad says quietly, and there are definitely tears now. They well at the corners of his eyes and trail downward, burning against his skin. Skeppy thumbs them away.

“It’s okay,” he assures, “It’s all okay now. I’m here. We’re safe. We’re going to be okay, I promise.”

  
Bad shifts, almost dislodging Skeppy as he stretches up and kisses him.

It’s fast and awkward, a little off-centre, but exactly as one would imagine a first kiss to be. It doesn’t make it any less special, it doesn’t feel like less, even though it lasts a bare moment before he can’t hold himself in place and bumps back against the arm of the sofa, knocking his head and whimpering with the pain. Skeppy tuts at him,

  
“Hey!”

“S-Sorry, I should’ve asked, I just- I didn’t know what else to do and I thought-”

“Hey, no, I’m not mad, don’t worry,” Skeppy soothes, easing up onto an elbow to hover overtop Bad, “I just wanted to kiss you first.”

“Well, you can kiss me second?” Bad offers, wide-eyed and hopeful, and Skeppy laughs at him as he ducks down to fulfil.

  
Given permission to do so, they spend probably too long there, sat together trading slow kisses and whispered affection in the afternoon light. The fish swim behind them, unnoticed as they wrap up in one another.

They’re interrupted at some point they don’t know how long between, the front door opening and Puffy’s voice echoing through,

  
  


“Bad? Skeppy?”

“Main room!” Skeppy calls, and Bad notes the way his voice has smoothed over as they scramble to sit upright. Bad’s ear flicks in the quiet after the front door closes. Two sets of footsteps.

  
Puffy enters brightly as always, wriggling her fingers. Behind her comes Punz, bag over his shoulder and white hoodie pristine and loose around him.

  
  


“You’re awake this time,” He greets as he pads in behind Puffy, “Hey. How are you?”

“Tired,” Skeppy answers as Bad says,

“Happy.”

  
Puffy gives him a quizzical, hopeful look, and he nods fractionally at her. Her face splits into a grin, and she settles smugly back on one of the other couches, Punz seating himself on the other side, tugging his bag up onto his knee,

  
“Weird, but I’m not gonna call you on it.”

“Well- I mean, I’m not happy about everyone getting hurt, obviously!” Bad says hurriedly. Skeppy reaches over to twine their fingers together in calming reassurance. 

“I didn’t think you were,” Punz assures, flashing him a smile. Bad doesn’t miss the way his eyes so briefly dart down to where Skeppy’s fingers are interlocked with his own, but disregards it. It’s not like they don’t do this fairly often anyway, they’re both clingy people who enjoy physical contact and affection.

  
And all of a sudden he misses being alone with Skeppy.   
  


It’s not as though he’s self-conscious, that isn’t it. Nervous, maybe, but he’ll allow himself that. It’s like all at once he just wants to tell him that he loves him, over and over and over, like no other words exist. Punz is speaking, but his head clouds over and he loses himself in the pink mists.

At least Skeppy is paying attention. He notices Bad falling into his own head and squeezes his hand, but it doesn’t seem to draw him out. He can’t really do anything without the others picking up on it, though, so he turns his attention to Punz with renewed vigor,

  
“...Ranboo mentioned everything was messed up, and I saw your stables and stuff were all destroyed, so I can pick up a contact about materials and help you rebuild. It won’t be _cheap_ , but I can get a good deal…”

“Yeah, we should be able to afford it without too much of a problem,” Skeppy responds, mentally calculating the costs, “But getting a better deal will help. And so will having you around for the physical work.”

“I don’t know when Ant will be up to doing it himself,” Punz shrugs, “I don’t mind working in his stead.”

“We talked it out with Sam earlier,” Puffy interjects, “He’s said he’ll start working on blueprints for a more sturdy building, one that won’t be as bad to get into if something… uh… destroys it again.”

“That’s good. I missed most of what Dream said about the stable,” Skeppy frowns, a little guilt seeping into his thoughts, “I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Puffy smiles at him, “We’ve got your back. And Ponk should be back in the next couple of weeks to take a look at you guys’ injuries, too- we’re going to be okay, I think.”

“Until Ponk is back, though,” Puns riffles in his bag and withdraws a small, clinking leather satchel that he shuffles over to hand to Skeppy. When he opens it, it’s full of six or seven little glass bottles of various potions, some of them with George’s signature branding ribbons, others with careful labelling in unfamiliar spidery handwriting.

  
Skeppy looks up at him, surprised. Potions aren’t easy to make, and they’re expensive to buy and sell.

  
“Whoa- what- how much do you want for these?”

  
There’s a pause. He can see the flicker of pain behind Punz’s eyes, but he shakes his head,

  
“Nothing. You’re my friends. They’re yours.”

  
It must ache to give such valuable items away, in some ways. But Punz is a friend before he’s a merchant, and as little as he’d admit it, he gets more from giving things to help his friends than selling them.

  
“We’ll find a way to repay you. Maybe not money, but something else.” Skeppy pulls the drawstring closed, and Punz laughs as he takes his seat again,

“Yeah, I know. Don’t worry about it though, just be _safe._ ”

“I’ll try.” Skeppy replies. He knows that wasn’t a general statement. Punz has definitely been told about his death, and the pointed look behind blue eyes is piercing right through him though he avoids it.

  
  


Punz stares at him for a couple seconds more before Puffy shoves his shoulder, and he drops his intense gaze, turning to look at her indignantly instead.

  
  


“Alright, I’m off home. I’ll get messages out to my suppliers about the building materials, and I’ll be by in the next couple of days if you want coffee or something?”

“Sounds great,” Skeppy nods, gently tugging on Bad’s hand. He looks over, still misty and blinking,

“Hm? Yeah. Sounds good.” Like he’s been listening, and isn’t just rewording what he last heard from Skeppy. It seems to be good enough, though, because Punz stands and swings his bag back over his shoulder.

“See you soon, then. Puffy, you want an escort home?” It’s said with a grin, meant as a joke, and she rolls her eyes at him.

“Do you? See you later, guys.”

  
  


Skeppy gently pulls Bad to his feet so the two of them can give Puffy hugs of farewell, and Bad comes out of his own head as she gently pinches his shoulder,

  
  


“Hey, you okay?” She keeps her voice low and quiet in his ear, and he nods,

“I’m okay,” he echoes, “Don’t worry.”

“Be safe.” She steps back with a cheeky smile, but the double meaning of her words is lost on Bad, either through ignorance or innocence, it’s hard to tell at this point. He just blinks at her and nods,

“We are, you be safe too.”

  
  


Puffy laughs at him, but doesn’t press, heading out with Punz at her side and waving through the window as they wander down the path. They watch as she brushes Cottonball down with her palms and inspects her, then hops up onto her back and pulls Punz up behind her, the two of them ride off at a fair pace considering Cottonball’s recent hardships- she holds up shockingly well to the extra weight, disappearing over the hill in a few moments, leaving Bad and Skeppy by the window, bidding farewell to empty air.

In the quiet that follows, Skeppy pulls Bad into his arms, letting the dregs of sunlight warm them through the glass.

  
  


“Love you,” Bad murmurs as he leans into it, letting Skeppy kiss his temple, “A lot.”

“Yeah. Love you too,” Skeppy smiles, gathering handfuls of shirt at Bad’s back, “Muffinhead.”

“That’s my word,” Bad says, though it’s not a complaint. Skeppy laughs at him and drags him back to the sofa,

“I know. Here, sit down and take your shirt off? Let me see your burns.”

  
  


Bad huffs, but peels away from him to hesitantly do as he’s bidden. He peels his shirt off and holds it against his chest as he turns his back to Skeppy, allowing him to inspect the burns on his back. Skeppy, to his credit, makes no noise of distress or guilt as he grazes his fingertips over the ashen shapes of wings scarred into Bad’s back, skin pearlescent-smooth and slightly puffy, tight at the same time. He roots through the bag that Punz had given them and withdraws a translucent, thick liquid. It’s beetle-iridescent where the light strikes it, and speckled with cinnamon-orange dust throughout, and when he opens it, it smells like aloe vera and vanilla. Bad sniffs the air.

  
  


“That’s worth so much money!” he tries to turn, but Skeppy puts a hand on his waist to still him,

“Don’t move. Yeah, I know, but you’re getting it. Still.”

  
  


Bad pouts, trying to pull away and lean into the touch all at the same time,

  
  


“But I’m fine! It’ll heal by itself, you don’t need to use that.”

“ _Still,_ ” Skeppy demands, and Bad stops wriggling, relenting. Skeppy is stubborn, and he does have a pinching ache across his back that it would be nice to get rid of.

  
  


Skeppy’s movement still isn’t the smoothest, but he does his best to calmly, gently rub the salve into the burns and revels in the soft, relaxed sighs that Bad gives when the ache starts to soothe away from his skin. When he’s covered the whole area, he re-seals the snap clasps on the bottle and tucks it away, draws a line down Bad’s spine,

  
  


“Done,” he says. Evening has set in, the sky outside a royal purple flecked with pink clouds, and they’re both exhausted in every way. Bad pulls his shirt back on, and they’re wordless as they make their way back up the stairs, bypassing the dirtied sheets of Skeppy’s room to head to Bad’s instead.

He’s less of an indoorsy type than Skeppy, with a huge bay window that opens out onto the front gardens and a set of thick curtains that Skeppy closes as Bad crawls under the blankets, into a ball on his bed that Skeppy gathers into his arms when he joins him.

Bad kisses him, silent and sweet, and sets his head against Skeppy’s throat to close his eyes for sleep. The night comes on them in a rush like owl wings, but they’re asleep long before the moon is risen. The quiet is calm, and they hold hope for their future, mangled fields outside be damned. 

Everything is going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more audience participation sadly, I'm just gonna go off the most popular from the last poll! But hey, I'm sure it'll happen again.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoyed a chapter that's less... plot and just genuinely mostly fluffy content. Bad and Skeppy are undeniably my favourite duo, and I love them so much.


	17. Concurrent Fourth - Tomorrow Will Be Kinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Secret Sister's song of the same name ("[Tomorrow Will Be Kinder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsVAXS8K5xQ)")
> 
> Time to see how Tubbo and Tommy are doing!

When Tommy wakes, Wilbur and Tubbo are no longer in bed. He doesn’t worry, though- Wilbur’s coat is tucked over him, and Tubbo’s green blanket bundled up and pulled in against his chest. He’s not usually the last of them to wake, but nothing is quite routine in the world right now.

He climbs out of bed with his shoulder and thigh aching despite the healing he’d received. Still, it’s not the worst injury he’d received, and Tubbo has had worse. (Safe to say that neither of them like explosions much.)

He pulls Tubbo’s blanket around his shoulders to fend off the waking shivers as he heads off downstairs.  
  


He’s halfway down before he hears Tubbo and Wilbur giggling, poking fun at one another, and when he arrives he finds Wilbur’s shirt shrugged off his shoulder so that Tubbo can prod at the bruising, gently. There’s a beetle-iridescent sheen over the skin, and Tommy assumes that Tubbo has cracked out some of their salve, backed up by the fact that his head whips to Tommy as the second-to-last stair creaks under his foot, and the guilt that crosses Tubbo’s eyes. Salve is expensive.

  
  


“Hey,” He greets, casual so that Tubbo will stop looking at him like _that,_ “Mor- Afternoon.” As he glances out at the sun, warm and honey-yellow on the boards outside.

“Afternoon,” Wilbur replies, “How are you? You okay?”

“I’m _fine,_ what about you, sir _dislocated my own shoulder for the fuckin’ drama?_ ”

  
  


Wilbur recoils in mock offence, lifting his good hand to his chest. Dramatically.

  
  


“I did _not_ dislocate my shoulder. Puffy did.”

“Your fault though, weren’t it?” Tommy flashes him a cheeky grin as he reclines, tugging Tubbo’s blanket until it’s comfortable across his shoulders.

“Don’t tease,” Tubbo chides back at him, and returns to gently coating Wilbur’s bruises in the salve. He winces occasionally, but allows him to do as he will. 

“Yeah,” Wilbur picks up the same chiding tone, “Don’t tease me! I’m delicate!”

“Shut up. Prick.” Tommy throws over at him, but it’s laced with affection. Wilbur laughs at him, and the sound is so good, it fills all of them with such a ballooning sense of relief and comfort. This is how their life should be. No more fighting, no more war, no more struggle. They’ve done enough.

  
  


Still. The three of them have never been able to sit still long, and Wilbur stays only long enough to make sure Tommy isn’t lying to him about being okay. As Tommy heads into the kitchen, at the edge of his hearing, he catches a muffled Wilbur telling Tubbo he’ll be back to their chess game in just a moment.

The next thing he knows, he’s being pinned in a corner with the hand on his shoulder gentle and firm at the same time.

  
  


“Tommy,” Wilbur’s voice sounds like a concerned warning. In any other situation, any other day, Tommy would be irritated if affectionate. Wilbur really is like his brother, in many ways, and he has a tendency to be both overprotective and a little unintentionally condescending.

Instead, now, today, he just feels grateful happiness well up in his chest. He pulls Wilbur into a hug as he lets a laugh bubble out, careful to avoid putting pressure on his fucked-up shoulder even though it’s far better now than it was. 

Wilbur freezes for a moment. He’s still- after all this time- pulling back from that knife-edge he’d walked when Schlatt pulled the power out from under him and started ruining all of the people he loves. The time he’d lost his mind, staring into the abyss and letting it stare back. He’s still getting used to being loved again. 

  
Like Tommy ever stopped.

  
“I’m fine, Will, I promise. I’m just glad you’re still here.”

  
Wilbur returns the hug.

  
  


“You, too. There was a lot- a lot of timelines, a lot of ways- you could have gone the same way as Q.”

“Dying isn’t so bad. I know you guys’d bring me back.” Tommy retreats a little, holding Wilbur at half arm’s length, “Not eager to run back into it, though.”

  
Wilbur looks horrified, which would be funny if it wasn’t about Tommy being dead.

  
“You know it gets harder to bring you back every time,” Wilbur’s grip on his shoulder is hard, almost bruising. Tommy winces, but doesn’t protest.

“Yeah, I know. Trust me, I’m not trying to die- but I know if I do, it’ll be okay.”

“One day it won’t be,” Wilbur frowns at him, but the words don’t have the hollow-bell echo of a premonition. Tommy can see him trying to press into the future, trying to look beyond his sight, and he gently baps the older man around the side of the head.

“Don’t fuckin’ do that. Don’t try and push through the spell. Idiot.”

“Right, sorry,” Wilbur looks sheepish, but it’s only a moment before he tucks Tommy back into a hug. This one is looser, less desperate, less full of overwhelming joy. Tommy sits and lets himself be held- whilst it might not always be his _favourite_ thing, the sticky-soft affection and contact, he knows it’s helping Wilbur in this moment. And _that_ is his favourite thing, the people he loves feeling safe, reassured.

  
After a good ten seconds, though, he squirms,

  
“You need to go see Niki,” Tommy demands, planting a hand on Wilbur’s chest to push him back, “As soon as. She was worried about you.”

  
There’s a flash of panic in Wilbur’s eyes, but seeing that it’s not reflected in Tommy’s, it dies down to a simmer.

  
“Is she okay? Is she hurt?”

“Little bit.” Tommy admits, “You know Niki.” 

  
Wilbur sees the way Tommy’s eyes dart to his injured shoulder and back, and it fills in the blanks. 

  
“Right,” he says, and Tommy slips out beside him,

“As soon as,” he repeats, “Now fuck off, let me get my drink.”

  
Wilbur drops a couple of warm insults as he returns to the main room. He loses to Tubbo quickly, distracted, and leaves not long after with his shirt still half-undone and his coat thrown over his good shoulder. They listen to his footsteps tap away, and in the quiet that follows, Tommy drags Tubbo’s blanket around his shoulders again and pads over to sit beside him. Tubbo takes the offered corner of blanket, and they huddle under it despite the warm summer weather. 

  
“Wanna play chess?” Tubbo re-sets the pieces. Tommy doesn’t want to play chess. They both know that.

“Yeah,” he answers anyway, because chess is preferable to moving.

  
They play three games. Tommy, surprisingly, wins the second of them and spends a good five minutes crowing about it whilst Tubbo just laughs at him. Eventually, they both get bored, and pack the chess set away.

  
“Time is it?” Tommy asks, yawning, stretching. Tubbo shrugs, glancing out to check the angles of the shadows through the window,

“Uh… about… six?”

“Ugh,” Tommy closes the little drawer for the black pieces, slipping out from under the blanket, and Tubbo chuckles at him.

“You need to learn to be patient, big man,” He offers as he grabs the chess set and stands, dragging the blanket up behind him so he can throw it on the sofa. He plods over to the bookcase to replace the chess set.

“Actually never,” Tommy groans, heading for the stairs, “I’m going to clean up and go visit Phil. Wanna come?”

  
Tubbo hums as he thinks about it. 

  
“Nah, I’m good. Say hi for me, though?”

“‘Course.” Tommy nods, and scrabbles off upstairs to go clean up.

  
Rinsing off is a pain, but he can’t be bothered warming water for it. So he takes a cold shower, shivering, rinsing the grime and blood of the day before off and watching it drain as he silently thanks Punz’s contacts for the plumbing. They’re only just slightly less advanced than the nobles of El Rapids or the greater kingdom, really. Expensive? Yes. Worth it, though.

He wriggles into clean clothes and glances at his armor, making a mental note to drop by Q’s place at some point for his helmet. That can wait, though- Phil is his priority right now.

L’Manberg is peaceful and sleepy. People are mostly awake- Purpled excluded, but he was on dawn duty- but the night has been rough and movement is calm and slow. He drifts by Fundy’s house, the kitchen windows are thrown open and he can hear pans clattering and laughter from within. He glances over to spy a shadowed 5up through the window, pinned against the counter and leaning as far back as he can to keep the cake tin in his hand out of Fundy’s reach. The tower guard leans over him, probably on his tiptoes, and held up only by the grace of the Gods and 5up’s hand planted against his chest. Sunlight glints off the edge of the cake pan.

He passes Niki and Wilbur, out in Niki’s front garden. They’re silent, but in the warm comfortable way of friends, shoulder-to-shoulder and swaying slightly. They’re gardening, putting in tiny little pots of various multicolored flowers. They’re all just various shades of blue and yellow, some of them edge toward purple, a couple more golden than true yellow, but there’s a lot of them. They’re some sort that Tommy doesn’t recognise, mostly because flowers aren’t his strong suit of knowledge, but they’re pretty and the roots are packed tight, so in the moments he catches as he passes, he sees Wilbur gently teasing the roots loose so he can plant them right. Niki has faint bruises in sickly yellows and purples all across her shoulder and neck, mirroring Wilbur’s own, both bright multicolors with loose-fitting shirts on a warm summer day. They garden regardless.

He passes Eret, who stops him as they go to pass, spinning on their heel as the image of Tommy finally settles behind their eyes,

  
“Oh, Tommy!” They jog to catch the last couple of steps they’d missed him in, “Hey, I was going to come by. How are you and Tubbo? Were you hurt?”

“Us? Nah, we’re fine,” Tommy waves the concern off airily, “Barely scratched at all.”

  
Eret eyes him disbelievingly, but doesn’t argue,

  
  


“Right. Right. What actually happened? I haven’t been able to catch anyone yet, Techno just sort of snorted at me when he walked past…”

“Sounds like Techno,” Tommy rolls his eyes, and begins to give Eret the general low-down on what happened. If his action scenes are a little over-described with words like _fucking sick cool-ass sick moves_ , then so be it. Eret has seen him fight. They know better than to think he’s lying- they’ve seen him run some wild tactics, no less than half of which do in fact involve Technoblade throwing him like a shotput. What other use is there for super strength magic?

Eret listens with patient intent, nodding and humming in the places they should, leaning back in almost-fear when Tommy describes Quackity’s death. They don’t bother asking if he’s okay, because they’d seen him the night before, but they do glance off in the direction of his home with concern vague in their eyes.

  
  


“Worked out okay, honestly. It was _massive_ , though, like- maybe about half the size of Punz’s tower? And all glowy and acidic and shit.”

“Sounds horrifying.” Eret replies levelly, but not dismissively, and Tommy barks a laugh, 

“S’pose. At least we’re all okay, though- better short fights than the wars.”

  
  


The word brings flashes of memories across Eret’s eyes. It’s taken a long time to come back here. Where Tommy’s smile and warmth is directed at them, where they’re _friends,_ though they still don’t know how Tommy can forgive them when he still has the scars, the burns and the sharp little nicks of shrapnel, pain he hadn’t felt because he was too busy being dead. The explosions still sound in their ears when they blink, when they try to sleep. Tommy has a hand on their shoulder and is shaking them gently,

  
  


“Eret? Eret, hey, you good?” The laughter is gone from his voice, his brows knitted in concern. Eret shakes themself and adjusts their sunglasses.

“Yeah, sorry, just got thinking. Glad you’re alright, though,” and follows it with a wary, but genuine smile. Tommy’s smile returns in response, and he gently thwacks their arm,

“‘Course I’m alright. Come on, it’s gonna take a lot more than _Dream_ to kill me dead!” And he laughs, but all that crosses Eret is alarm,

“Wait- Dream? Did Dream try to kill you?”

“Oh- right, yeah that bit,” Tommy’s laugh is sheepish, here, “I don’t really understand, but they mentioned that whatever that big fucker was- the one with the teeth and the eyes and shit- it was Dream, but from the future? When he’s lost his mind or somethin’, I don’t know. That’s sayin’ he has it now, but we all know he’s lost his marbles.”

It’s meant to be light, friendly jabs at a man not there to defend himself, but Eret is too busy worrying. They barely pick up on the japes at all.

They’re relieved that he’s okay, of course, but the news about Dream is just sending more threads of fear and theory through them. They have books to update, shit to write.

  
  


“Weird,” they say aloud, because Tommy’s expression is growing concerned again, “Something to think about. Anyway- I’ll let you get on; going to see Phil?”

“Yeah, gotta make sure the old man didn’t drop dead in the night,” Tommy smiles, but it’s only half-joking. 

“Fair enough. I’ll catch you later?”

“Later,” Tommy agrees, waving, and the two of them split ways.

  
  
  


Tommy pads around the back of Techno and Phil’s house, ignoring the front door. Of course he does, all he knows is how to be a little shit.

When he reaches the back gate, he spots Techno’s soft pink sheets blowing faintly in the wind. The heavy blanket he throws overtop of the quilt is damp, too, stretched out over rails to give it more surface area. Tommy snorts at them, trailing his fingers over the damp cotton of the sheets as he passes, heading up the few steps to the back door and turning the handle. It’s not locked. He heads in.

When he enters the kitchen, he finds Techno sat at the table, half-slumped with a quill in one hand, scrawling notes in a finely-bound book with a pot of ink set just far enough away that he won’t knock it over when he clumsily dips again. He looks up as Tommy enters, though. He’s not wearing the skull mask, so it’s red eyes that meet Tommy’s over the kitchen counter, between the translucence of the green wine bottles. There’s a pause of stillness and then Techno grunts, dips his pen, and returns to writing.

  
  


“Afternoon to you too, arsehole,” Tommy greets. He plods over to the table and snags an apple from the fruit bowl, crunching into it as he looks down at Techno, splayed across the table with his head cushioned against his left arm, watching himself write with his free hand.

“Mngh,” Techno replies, eloquent as ever, “What do you want?”

“Ah-ah, you can be a prick if you want, you called me your friend last night.” Tommy grins and pulls a chair from the other side, plopping into it with such weight that the ink bottle trembles, and Techno rolls his eyes. The writing stops. 

“I regret it,” he replies, straightening up and taking a rag from his pocket to wipe the nib of his quill clean. He takes care with it, setting it back in its case once it’s cleaned up, and Tommy watches in semi-surprised quiet, though the quiet is mostly thanks to the apple he’s crunching his way through.

The quill was a gift from Tommy, about two birthdays ago. Nibbed in gold so that it would take longer to blunt than a cut quill, so really more of a dip pen than a true quill. The feather itself comes from a Raven, capital R, a massive necrotic beast littered with fragments of bone, ibex-like horns curling back from the spot where eyes should be. 

Tommy and Tubbo had encountered it honestly not too long before Techno’s birthday, out on a hunting mission they’d been explicitly forbidden from undertaking, sneaking off toward Dream’s home to try and get a bead on just how armed they were. 

Most of the path is wooded up there, but plains stretch in wide spotty swathes in areas, and it was one of those they’d been travelling through, slipping through long grass and silently praying that their tucked-in canvas pants would be enough to stop the ticks from biting. (They weren’t, but that’s a whole other ball game.)

It had almost killed them. But between Tubbo’s frantic magic and Tommy’s sword, only a broken arm and a concussion came from it. Tommy does still have the scars from the hefty bite to his forearm that shattered his bone, but he has so many scars now, they all blend into one.

He’d pulled the flight feather out proudly, crowing when he found it bloodied at the end, crunching the bone of the wing underfoot as he wiped his own blood from his face with his good hand. 

What better gift for the Blade than a pen from an omen of death?

It’s still surprising to find he still uses it. Even more so that it’s so carefully kept, the case a fine silver, the clasp an intricate locking mechanism. 

  
  


“Is Phil up?” Tommy asks, tossing the apple core at the bin. It rattles off the side of the bin, but does settle in the bottom.

“Yeah, he’s up. Him ‘n’ Ranboo were off out at the kennels a bit back, lookin’ out for the dogs. Should be back now, though.”

“Oh, shit, Ranboo’s still here?” Tommy quirks an eyebrow, “I’ll have to send him off to Tubbo.”

“Yeah, he’ll be livin’ here most of the time now. Still got his tent and such, but… better a roof over his head.” The tone catches Tommy’s attention, and he slowly cracks into a mischievous grin,

“Aw shit, Technoblade goin’ soft in his old age, ay?”

“Not too soft to throw you,” Techno warns, “And I’m not old.”

  
  


That definitely isn’t an empty threat, which is just enough to make Tommy drop it and stand up.

  
  


“Alright, alright. I’m goin’ to find Phil- why don’t you go to bed for a bit? You were practically asleep at the table.”

“Can’t, sheets’re dryin’,” Techno jerks his head at the window, “Though I am tired. Didn’t sleep much.”

  
  


Tommy snorts, but does come around the table, to put his hand on Techno’s shoulder and squeeze gently. It’s strange- Techno isn’t exactly well-muscled, most of his strength comes from his magic. He has a number of gnarled scars down his arms and shoulders from his numerous fights, and some of them are thick enough to feel through the light cotton shirt he’s wearing for the nice weather today.

  
  


“Screw off, Tommy,” Techno says, despite the fact that the words are accompanied by a hand lifting up to lay over Tommy’s for a brief moment before the softness shifts and he gently digs his nails into Tommy’s skin, making him pull back quickly.

“Bastard,” Tommy chides back, and heads off toward the main room. Techno snorts at his retreating back.

  
  
  
  


Tommy finds Phil in the main room, sewing something on his favoured coat. His wings are drooped idly beside him, one of them cloaking over Ranboo, curled up on the sofa beside him. Ranboo seems to have been awake at one point, his clothes have changed from the previous night, but he’s fallen back asleep now. One of the dogs is tucked under his arm, not asleep, but placid. The tail wags as Tommy enters, and Phil looks up, automatically making a shushing gesture. Tommy nods, plods further into the room and sits on the rug, looking up at Phil. When he speaks, he keeps his voice low,

  
  


“Y’alright?”

“Aye, I’m fine. What about you? Tubbo?”

“He says hello,” Tommy smiles, faint but genuine, “Not tired or anythin’?”

“‘Course I’m fuckin’ tired,” Phil laughs, “I did three spells; one is already enough, but two healin’ spells and a resurrection? _Fuck,_ ” He rolls his eyes, “Better than Ranboo though.”

  
  


At that, he sets the needle in the fabric so he can free a hand to gently ruffle through Ranboo’s hair. The younger man curls a little more around the dog in his arms, and a faint purr fills the room. Tommy raises an eyebrow.

  
  


“God, he fuckin’ _purrs_ now?”

“Always has,” Phil shoots back, returning to his sewing, “Gotta pay more attention to your friends, mate.”

“Shut up,” Tommy replies, with the bubbling edge of a laugh. Ranboo hums faintly, eyes flicking open as he begins to wake. The dog slips out from under his arm as he does, padding over to Tommy for one-handed pets and attention. Phil lifts his wing, tucking it back behind him, as Ranboo sits up. He rubs his eyes with one hand, waves with the other as he yawns,

“Hey Tommy.”

“Hey, big man. So you’re livin’ here now, huh?”

“Y-yeah, most of the time,” Ranboo glances to Phil, as if he’s confirming that the offer is still on the table. Phil just nods at him placidly.

“Tubbo will lose his shit about that,” Tommy rolls his eyes affectionately, “You should go see him. He’d enjoy your company.”

“Y’think?” Ranboo sways upright, stretching out. He’s wearing one of Phil’s lighter sweaters, green with red hearts around the cuffs, and it’s a little wide on him, but short lengthways. He’s not _that_ much taller than Phil, but between the wing slits at the back and the height, it looks awkward. Still, though, he seems comfortable in it.

“Definitely.” Tommy nods once, firm, and Ranboo hums. He pets the dog’s head and turns for the door,

“Alright. See you later, Phil.”

“Later, mate. Say hi to Tubbo for me.”

“Got it.” Ranboo’s voice drifts off as he disappears, the front door opening and closing moments later, leaving Phil and Tommy alone.

  
  


They’re quiet for a few minutes, Tommy fussing the dog as he waits for Phil to take the reins of conversation.

  
  


“We found another one of those books,” he says, and Tommy’s head shoots up,

“What’s this one about?”

“Underwater city. Meant to be dedicated to preserving history, ended up being a mass grave. Wanna read it?” Phil flexes his wings out in offering, and Tommy shuffles up onto the sofa beside him, letting the feathers settle around his shoulders. Phil reaches over to the side table and plucks the book from the pile cautiously, handing it to him,

“These are so weird,” Tommy murmurs as he takes it, “Like, the way they just keep cropping up. Anything weird about this one?”

“Same as usual. Circle of chunks of white quartz. This one did have a weird sort of rose, though. Seemed poisonous.” Phil shrugs, and Tommy hums, running his fingers over the too-perfect embossing, opening the cover. _The Lost City of Mizu._ No author. There’s never an author.

  
  


He settles in to read it as Phil returns to sewing, a calm they so rarely get to feel.

  
  
  


Ranboo almost loses his way twice heading to Tubbo’s house, but when he manages to get there, Tubbo opens the door with a look of surprise that quickly morphs to a muted, warm joy.

  
  


“Hey, Ranboo,” he steps aside, holding the door open. Ranboo inclines his head gratefully as he steps in, but he still looks awkward standing in the space, as though he doesn’t believe he should be there. Tubbo notices, loops his arm through Ranboo’s, and tugs him into the main room. Ranboo allows himself to be basically manhandled into sitting on the sofa, where Tubbo joins him, leaning idly against his shoulder in the same sort of absent way he treats Tommy. Ranboo yawns, jaw cracking with how impossibly wide his mouth stretches as he shifts his weight to lean on Tubbo in turn.

“How’re you doing?” He asks, once the two of them have gotten comfortable. Tubbo hums, noncommittal,

“Been better,” he admits, “Worried about Wilbur and Tommy, worried about that thing coming back. Kinda sucks that I can’t really do magic at the moment.”

“I’ll get you another kalimba.” Ranboo promises immediately, and Tubbo laughs, tilting his head back to look to Ranboo’s face,

“Don’t worry about it, minutes man. I’ll live. Next time a group goes out to El Rapids, I’ll get em to buy one.”

“I’ll get you a new one before then,” Ranboo replies. There’s no room to argue with the words, as much as Tubbo itches to. He simply leans a little harder against Ranboo’s shoulder in silent gratitude.

“Mmm. Best husband.”

  
  


Ranboo barks a laugh,

  
  


“Shut _up_ ,”

“Hey, you’re the one who pushed that gag!”

“N-no, that’s… not true?” Ranboo is trying hard not to giggle, to make his point sound firm, but he’s failing abysmally. Tubbo laughs, too, and they fall into relaxed quiet for a while before Tubbo breaks it,

“What about you? Karl gave you one of those weird sweets, didn’t he? You doing okay?”

“Oh, I am _so tired,_ ” Ranboo punctuates the sentence with a yawn, “Could fall asleep right here, honestly.”

“Wanna go sit in the garden and get some air, then? See if it’ll keep you awake?”

“Yeah, it’s a nice enough day.”

  
  


Neither of them move. Five seconds pass. Ten.

  
  


“Now?” Ranboo asks tentatively, and Tubbo laughs as he finally shuffles, standing up,

“Yeah, I guess. Sorry, you’re comfortable.”

“I am literally entirely bone, you’ve gotta have had like… three sharp edges poking you.”

  
  


Tubbo shrugs, leading the way out to the front garden,

  
  


“Still comfortable. Sweater’s soft- one of Phil’s?”

“Yeah, I didn’t bring a change of clothes, so mine are drying and I’m wearing theirs. Oh- yeah, uh, Tommy said you’d be excited about it-”

“About what?” Tubbo looks over his shoulder, excitement already gleaming in his eyes, he reaches back to snag Ranboo’s wrist and tug him out the door.

  
  


The late afternoon air greets them warmly. The breeze is cool and faint, bringing with it the scent of flowers from the fat rhododendron bush at the side of the garden, beside which a sheltered beehive rests, the paint peeling somewhat from the years of weathering. The bees buzz patiently from within, bumbling around the purple-pink blooms of the bush. There’s a wooden double garden swing set out at the opposite side of the garden where Tubbo sits with a soft flump, pulling Ranboo down beside him,

About _what?_ ” he repeats, when Ranboo proves to be too overwhelmed to continue his own sentence.

“Right, sorry,” Ranboo startles, laughing somewhat awkwardly, “So I stayed with Phil and Techno last night, because…” he gestures vaguely in the direction of Karl’s house,

“Right,” Tubbo says like he understands,

“And they have a spare room… and I feel bad about it, but I don’t exactly _love_ sleeping in a tent-”

“I’ve always told you that you can stay here whenever!” Tubbo protests earnestly, and Ranboo laughs at him, slinging an arm warmly around his shoulders,

“I know, I know. I appreciate it. But to the point, I’m moving in with Techno and Phil. I’m gonna live here, at least most of the time!”

  
  


He pauses, studying Tubbo’s face for a reaction as it goes completely blank for two, three, four seconds before the words settle in and he _beams,_

  
  


“You’re moving back to L’Manberg?” Tubbo’s voice reaches that excited peak of shouting it does when he’s happy, and Ranboo is opening his arms to the enthusiastic hug before it’s even thrown at him. He knows Tubbo too well to be surprised by one of these again,

“Mhm!” Ranboo affirms, squishing him back, “I’m probably still going to disappear sometimes, but… this will be my home again.”

“ _Ranboo!_ ” Tubbo exclaims into the hug. There’s no physical way for him to crush Ranboo any tighter, but by the Gods, does he try. 

  
Ranboo gives a few half-wheezes of laughter as his lungs are squished by his best friend, pattering at Tubbo’s back when it gets too much to handle,

  
“Can’t breathe!” He huffs, and Tubbo releases immediately,

“Sorry! Just excited.”

“I know, Tommy said you would be,” Ranboo is smiling at him as he settles himself back into the chair. Tubbo grins at him, and the world melts away.

  
They sit there and talk about everything and nothing. About chess plays, stories they’ve read, about the fight. About the future, what they’re afraid of, what they’re hopeful for.

Tubbo has always noticed that talking with Ranboo is easy in a way different but adjacent to Tommy; it’s no secret even to himself that he loves them both dearly. Tommy may be closer to a brother than anything, but Ranboo is just _his friend,_ through all the conflicts and fights they’ve lived alongside, through all the perceived betrayal. 

  
There have been people who hold it against Ranboo that he seems to always be on both sides, friendly with the enemy as with the ally, but never Tubbo.

He’d found out that Ranboo had been consulting with Dream, after the war of L’Manberg that saw Schlatt’s remains desecrated past the point of any resurrection. They all had, when Dream had held up the little bound book of necromantic secrets in the midst of the fight and called his name, called him out. Nobody ever said Dream was a good person.

Quackity had knocked him to the earth and put a sword in him, left him coughing up blood and staring death in the face. Karl’s face had crumpled, but he’d pulled Quackity away, at least, held him back as he devolved into a monster begging for Ranboo’s blood.

Tubbo had looked at him, picked him from the floor as he bled, staining Tubbo’s uniform dark crimson. 

There’s a space Ranboo doesn’t remember, where he thought he’d die, face turned against Tubbo’s shoulder and rattling for breath with blood leaking from the corner of his mouth as he’d apologised, over and over, not for what he did but for hurting Tubbo.

Then he remembers waking on Tubbo’s bed, green blanket tossed over him and wounds bandaged. With Tubbo asleep at his side.

And he’d been forgiven as though there was never any sin, as though nothing had ever been wrong. In the quiet moments where he’d broken in silence, Tubbo quieted his roiling mind minutely with whispered softness, telling him that he understood. That it didn’t hurt. That he did the right thing.

Ranboo has never been able to believe him, but the crushing gratitude that Tubbo still looks at him and smiles despite the weight of his sins and his betrayal is so great. Occasionally he’ll forget that he exists in the present second, slipping back into half-lost memories kept shut tight in diaries he doesn’t remember writing in a language he only half understands but in his handwriting. 

  
Tubbo throws himself down to lounge across Ranboo’s legs, making the swing rock,

  
  


“Hey, stop spacing out. We’re having a _conversation_ here, Ranboo.”

“Sorry,” Ranboo replies, but his voice is quiet and his eyes are distant. Tubbo sits up.

“Hey,” Tubbo’s voice has softened, too, losing the edge of shouting he usually keeps, “Ranboo, look at me.”

  
Ranboo struggles, but manages to shift his gaze to Tubbo’s face. They’re not making eye contact, Tubbo has deliberately kept his eyes low. Yet another thing to be grateful for.

  
“What day is it?” Tubbo asks, one hand settles over Ranboo’s wrist, pressing lightly. A grounding sort of pressure. It takes a moment, but he blinks and remembers,

“Thursday,” Ranboo replies, though his voice still seems a little hazy. Tubbo nods.

“Right. Good. Where are you right now?”

“I’m… in L’Manberg,” Ranboo says, frowning, but steadily coming back to himself, “I’m in your front garden. Right?”

“Right!” Tubbo replies enthusiastically, but still with an edge of calm, “Good man. D’you know what season it is?”

“Summer,” Ranboo replies, with more conviction, “And Wilbur is the president. And you’re my ‘husband’,” The last said with a little grin and his free hand making air quotes, and Tubbo exhales,

“Right. You okay there?” He does not pull his hand back from Ranboo’s wrist.

“Yeah, I’m- yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise- I know,” He cuts Ranboo off before he can protest, “I know you’re going to, I know you want to. But you don’t _need_ to. There’s nothing I think you have to be sorry for. Okay?”

“Okay,” Ranboo agrees, and only then does Tubbo sit back.

  
They relax in quiet company for a few more minutes before Tubbo’s eye catches 5up’s door open across the street, and the man himself emerges with Sapnap at his heel. He lifts a hand to wave, 

  
“Look, 5up!” He says, more to Ranboo than the air. Ranboo follows his eye and waves, too. 5up waves cheerily back at them, and Ranboo leans back against the wood as he watches,

“Wonder why Sapnap’s with him?” He asks, at about the same moment that Sapnap’s wings burst from his shoulders.

  
The patches on the underside where he’d ripped feathers out the night before have partially regrown, far more than any natural growth would have been. They’re not fully replaced, yet, but they’re growing in, downy and fluffy. A moment later, 5up touches something on his hood and two glowing green bat-like wings materialise at his back,

“Whoa!” Tubbo gasps. 5up gives the wings an experimental flap and shoots about ten feet up in the air, then begins spinning and spiralling as he frantically flaps in an attempt to correct himself and ends up overcorrecting violently.

They see Sapnap laugh, and Tubbo does the same, cackling so hard that he doubles over and slips off of the seat. Ranboo laughs, too, but manages to catch Tubbo and hold him tight, until his friend is clinging to his leg to stay upright. Across the square, Sapnap helps steady 5up in the air, and once he’s no longer losing all of his shit, he shouts over to Tubbo and Ranboo,

“Don’t you laugh at me!”

  
Tubbo tries to rebuke, but just sort of ends up squeaking instead, and Ranboo just waves him off with a grin, watching 5up and Sapnap unsteadily start through the air away and out of sight. Tubbo wheezes as he finally manages to collect himself, clawing back up onto the chair, mostly due to Ranboo pulling him up.

  
  


“You okay? Don’t forget to breathe,” Ranboo chuckles, and Tubbo makes a horrific wheezing screeching noise instead of words. Eventually, he catches his breath as he leans against Ranboo’s shoulder for support, letting out a heavy sigh and smiling. The air is warm, mid-afternoon and heavy with pollen. 

Ranboo, surprisingly, is the first to fall asleep. Their conversation draws out and slows until Ranboo completely falls silent, slumping against Tubbo, who muffles a chuckle. It’s still early enough that he doesn’t really need to take Ranboo home, so he decides to just… let him sleep. He tucks himself in for the time being and makes sure Ranboo isn’t leaning at _too_ weird an angle, and then turns his gaze to L’Manberg and the patient, lazy way people are moving, losing himself to time.

Time trickles to evening, purple paints the sky. He’s about wondering whether it’s a good time to wake Ranboo when he sees 5up return, spattered with an ochre substance that makes Tubbo’s stomach drop with recognition; Eagle Blood.

He looks half spaced out, not even glancing over to Tubbo’s house as he dismisses his wings and trudges up to his door, the glint of his blades in his hand.

The door opens, warmth spilling out from within as Fundy observes his friend, then tugs him in. The door closes behind them, a resounding thud reverberating through the air. Ranboo startles awake.

“Hng- what happened?”

“S’okay, just Fundy closing the door too hard. Hey. Sleep well?”

“Y-yeah, sorry. How long was I asleep?” Ranboo rubs at his eyes, and Tubbo glances up at the sky,

“I’d say maybe an hour and a half?” He frowns, tracking distance between the stars and the horizon, “Hour forty-five.”

“Wow. _Wow,_ I’m so sorry I fell asleep on you.” Ranboo grimaces, and Tubbo laughs, more in an attempt to placate him than anything,

“Hey, don’t worry about it. At least I’m cosy, right?”

“You really are,” Ranboo rubs the side of his face, where the imprint of Tubbo’s sweater still sticks, “But I should probably go home. Is Tommy home yet?”

“Not yet. Send him over, will you?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. I’ll see you tomorrow?” Ranboo stands, and Tubbo follows his lead,

“If you want, yeah. I do have a spot I’ve been meaning to show you, I think you’d enjoy it. Loads of flowers ‘n’ stuff.”

“Sounds great.” Ranboo smiles, and doesn’t wait for the prompt to pull Tubbo into a loose hug.

Tubbo breathes almost a sigh of relief as he returns it, gratitude in the touch. Ranboo is a whole foot taller than he is, so he’s at exactly the right height to tuck under Ranboo’s chin. 

They separate, and Tubbo waves Ranboo farewell as he leaves into the swelling summer darkness, the faint sound of bats escaping into the air around them and the twilight purple of the sky seeming hopeful for the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mmmm. More of no real plot, because man.... the kids deserve to chill out.
> 
> Also Tubbo and Ranboo's bit about being husbands is the funniest, best shit you can pry it from my cold dead hands.
> 
> Back to plot from the next chapter I think, because this is. Enough. Might do side stories abt the others' escapades, but main story returns next chapter stay tuned

**Author's Note:**

> I'll probably be scribbling up ideas for designs of this au at some point on my twitter (@i_pogchamp)
> 
> I'm also a glutton for punishment so overall, I'm interested in hearing what parts hurt you the most as well as what parts you like the most!
> 
> If you're reading and you enjoyed my writing, please leave a comment to let me know! Even something as simple as "<3" really lets me know I'm appreciated, and helps motivate me to keep writing.


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